


Merry Christmas, I'm Yours

by RabbitRunnah



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bitty/original male characters, Christmas, Eventual Happy Ending, Future Fic, Jack and Bitty never got together at the end of Year 2., Jack/original characters, M/M, Melancholy holidays, Mutual Pining, this is how they eventually figure it out.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21945874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabbitRunnah/pseuds/RabbitRunnah
Summary: It takes Jack only a couple months after graduation to realize he's in love with Bitty.It takes him almost 20 years to actually do something about it.(Or, five Christmases Jack and Bitty spend together.)
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 208
Kudos: 436





	1. 2015

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays! I got a bit later start than I wanted, but I'll be posting this fic in installments over the next few days. Consider this my entry into the Inspired-By-When-Harry-Met-Sally-canon. I love the idea of Jack and Bitty being in love, and knowing they're in love, but hesitating to take those steps. I also like bittersweet and melancholy holiday stories, because something about this season always brings that out in me. Don't worry, though, there's plenty of fluff to go around and a happy ending here, too.

It’s only been a few months, but Jack’s hit with a sudden wave of nostalgia when he pulls up to the Haus on a Friday afternoon in December. Nostalgia, closely followed by guilt.

The guilt gnaws at him. He promised Bitty he’d be back, but that was before he really understood exactly how much his first season in the NHL would take out of him. He did manage to make it to one early season game, but an early workout the next morning forced him to leave before he could do much more than congratulate Bitty on his assist and say hi to the rest of the guys. “Well, come out for the next party,” Ransom told him as he said his goodbyes. Jack had agreed that would be fun, knowing in his heart it probably wouldn’t happen anytime soon. On the rare weekend evening he does have off, he’s definitely not in the mood to drive over to Samwell and party in his old frat house.

But it’s almost Christmas, everybody is about to head home for the holiday, and the Falcs have a bye this weekend. With a free evening and no reasonable excuse for putting off his Christmas shopping any longer, Jack had texted Bitty to ask if he wanted to join him.

“I won’t even chirp you about procrastinating because I know you’ve been so busy,” Bitty replied.

“Is that a yes?”

“My last class is at one.”

That was at nine this morning, and Jack has spent the entire day trying to fend off a nervous energy that kicked in as soon as he confirmed his plans with Bitty.

Jack misses a lot of things about Samwell, but he misses Bitty most of all. The only surprising thing about this is that it’s so very unsurprising. Who would have thought, given their rocky start two years ago, that Bitty would become one of Jack’s best friends? But that’s what they are. Bitty, of all of Jack’s former SMH teammates, is the person he talks to most often these days. Maybe not daily, and sometimes nothing more than a “good game” text, but Jack’s friendship with Bitty has kept him grounded these first months in Providence. 

They grew closer last year, though renewed checking practices and baking lessons, but things really changed over the summer. Jack hadn’t kept up with the group chat as much as he’d have liked, but he always looked forward to Bitty’s texts. They maintained an easy friendship, updating each other on their days and how they were spending their summer vacations: Bitty back in Georgia working at a summer camp, Jack adjusting to life in Providence and the pre-season.

He’d even visited Bitty over the Fourth of July, after a last minute invitation from Bitty’s parents. Bitty had seemed a little surprised when Jack accepted the invitation, and it had surprised him a bit, too. But when Bitty met him at baggage claim in Atlanta Jack felt himself truly relax for the first time since graduation and while Georgia was unfamiliar, Bitty felt like home.

The Haus still feels like home, too. Somebody has strung strands of lights — mismatched in color and size — up around the roof and an inflatable Santa-hat-wearing Minion beckons from the snow-dusted grass. Predictably, the door is unlocked. He lets himself in and brushes past a cardboard cutout of the Grinch whose face has been inexplicably covered with a blurry printout of Dex, one of the frogs Bitty took under his wing last year.

Mariah Carey’s plaintive cry of “all I want for Christmas is yooooooou, baby!” leads Jack to the Haus resident he most wants to see. Bitty’s bopping around the kitchen in warmup pants and an SMH hoodie, completely oblivious to Jack’s presence. The music masked the sound of his arrival and Bitty’s too focused on his task at hand, anyway: stirring something in a metal mixing bowl. Frosting for cookies, Jack guesses, since dozens of Christmas trees and snowmen line every available surface.

“These ready to eat?” Jack asks with a grin as he picks up a cookie.

“Jack!” Bitty turns around at the sound of Jack’s voice and the next thing Jack knows he’s in his arms. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack,” he admonishes into Jack’s shoulder.

Jack huffs out a laugh. “Bittle. You knew I was on my way. I texted before I left Providence.”

“Well, you said you were coming to the kegster last month and then you bailed on us,” Bitty says, but there’s no venom in the accusation, only fondness. “Anyway, I’ve got a pie on the counter over there with your name on it. Literally. I caught Ransom sneaking a peek and I had to make a sign.”

Jack’s insides warm at the thought of Bitty making something just for him, even though he’s been doing it all semester. Every week without fail, a new care package arrives in his building’s mail center. It usually contains a couple jars of jam, sometimes a tin of carefully wrapped cookies or a loaf of bread. The frequency of the packages’ arrival had alarmed the building manager at first, until Jack explained Bitty was a close friend and not some overzealous fan. It’s weird that there’s now a list of people Jack will accept mail from, but apparently it’s necessary.

“And the cookies?”

Bitty gestures to the bowls and containers of sprinkles and colored sugar crystals crowding the counter. “Cookie decorating bar. The guys can drop in and decorate a few at a time in between finals. It’s been up all week; I’m just restocking.”

Mentally, Jack calculates how much time and money Bittle has spent “stocking” this cookie bar, but he’s sure it’s appreciated.

“God, I missed this.”

“Well, of course you did. Your fancy nutritionists don’t have anything on me.”

“True, but I meant all of this.” He really has missed it all: the beer can Christmas tree Ransom and Holster start the day after Thanksgiving and add to as the holiday season progresses, the smell of apple pie that always seems to be coming from the kitchen, even the gross old couch Bitty hates.

“So,” Bitty says as he stirs red food coloring into a bowl of frosting, “I was thinking the mall? That way we can check out a few department stores to find something nice for your mom, and then we can go to the kitchen store. You said you want to get something there for your dad?”

“Euh, yeah.” Jack isn’t entirely sure _what_ he should get his father, but that’s why he enlisted Bitty.

“Let me just change real quick” Bitty sets the bowl next to the others and sticks a plastic knife in it. “You should make a cookie while I’m waiting.”

Jack knows it will take Bitty a minimum of ten minutes to change his clothes and fix his hair, so he takes his time decorating a Christmas tree, carefully spreading an even layer of green frosting over it and shaking sparkly sugar crystals over it. He won’t eat it, not yet. He sets it next to the pie Bitty made for him instead

Bitty returns, wearing jeans and a sweater and a coat Jack might wear in a blizzard. Not on what passes for a mild winter afternoon in Massachusetts. “Sure you’ll be warm enough, Bittle?” Jack chirps. “I’m sure we can find some snow pants to go with that parka.”

“You hush,” Bitty says, giving Jack a gentle shove. “Not all of us have Canadian blood to keep us warm.” He makes a show of zipping it up to his chin as Jack guides him out the door.

“I really like what you’ve done with the place,” Jack says, indicating the Minion standing sentry in front of the Haus. “Is it really an improvement over Shitty’s Christmas flamingos, though?”

Bitty makes a disgusted face. “The frogs bought it to torment me. I want to stab it.”

A laugh rises out of Jack’s chest and he slings an arm around Bitty. “Come on, car’s that way.”

It turns out asking Bitty to help him with his shopping was a great idea. Where Jack is clueless, Bitty is efficient, guiding him from store to store in search of the perfect presents for his parents. When Jack holds up a fleece pullover he thinks his mom might like, Bitty instead directs him to a cashmere shawl the exact color of her eyes. In Sur La Table, Jack mentions his father's been experimenting with sourdough starters after a recent trip to San Francisco and Bitty immediately homes in on a display of brightly colored cookware. “If he isn’t cooking in cast-iron, he isn’t cooking at all,” Bitty says decisively, picking a lid off one of the pieces as if to assess its heft. He hands it to Jack so he can feel it for himself. “And you can make some great breads in these things.”

Jack trusts Bitty’s judgement, so he chooses a round Le Creuset piece in a shade called “Marine Blue” because it’s the closest to Falcs blue. As they exit, he can’t help but notice the wistful glance Bitty sends toward the shiny copper stand mixer in the window. He’s already bought Bitty’s Christmas present, a set of spatulas and a knit Falcs toque. It’s not the most exciting gift, but the spatulas have little smiley faces on them, like the ones Bitty sometimes adds to the end of his text messages. A stand mixer would be too much, coming on the heels of the oven. Jack knows Bitty knows he paid for most of it, and he’s not sure how he’d explain such an extravagant a gift without the cover of the rest of the guys contributing to maintain his plausible deniability.

On the heels of that thought comes another: What is he trying to deny?

It’s not something he dwells on; before he can really consider the question, Bitty spots a Starbucks across the way and declares he needs a caffeine fix before he can be expected to do any more shopping.

“How about Annie’s instead?” Jack suggests. The Starbucks line snakes into the mall walkway and is full of stressed outparents and small, whiny children.

“Just like old times,” Bitty says.

“Old times?” Jack raises an eyebrow. “It’s only been like six months.”

“Don’t you chirp me, Mr. Zimmermann. Six months is an eternity.”

There’s a light snow falling as they make their way to the car, which delights Bitty because he now has justification for his choice in outerwear. “Not overdressed now, am I?” he asks, playfully bumping into Jack.

“You are,” insists Jack, whose heaviest layer is his hoodie. “It’s barely snowing, Bittle.”

“You’re too Canadian,” Bitty mutters as he stuffs his hands into his pockets.

“You’re too Southern,” Jack chirps back, but he humors Bitty by showing him how the car’s seat warmers work.

“You sure you have time for coffee?” Bitty asks when Jack parallel parks a few blocks away from Annie’s. “You can just drop me off back at the Haus if you have to get back.”

“Bits, I’ve got the time. I cleared my whole schedule to spend the day with you.”

The look Bitty gives him does the same thing to Jack’s heart rate that taking a shot with two seconds left on the clock does. Like every other disconcerting Bitty-related thought Jack has had today, he tries not to think about it.

“It’s just, I’m not really ready to say goodbye. I feel like we’ve hardly had a chance to talk.”

“We talk all the time,” Jack says, as his heart rate returns to normal. “We’ve been talking all afternoon.”

“About your parents and their culinary adventures, which I do find very inspiring. I need to talk to your dad about his sourdough starter. But I wanna hear about you, Mr. Zimmermann.”

“Okay, sure, but we have to talk about you, too.”

“That’s fair, I guess,” Bitty says. “Even though my life isn’t as exciting as yours.”

“Bits, I don’t want exciting. I want to hear about how Chowder and Lardo are fitting in at the Haus, and what Ransom thinks the ghosts are up to.” The fresh snow crunches under their feet as they make their way to Annie’s on a path as familiar as the plays they used to make when Bitty was Jack’s winger. The barista working behind the counter is familiar too; her face registers surprise as Jack places their usual order: black coffee, a pumpkin spice latte, _pain au chocolat_ for Bitty, and an oat and berry muffin for himself.

They grab a seat by the fire. Annie’s is empty tonight, most students having gone home for the break or out enjoying one last night out with friends before heading home.

“That game last week against —” Bitty starts as Jack asks, “How was —?”

“You go first,” Jack says.

“I was just gonna say, that hit you took last week.”

Jack’s hand drifts toward the mark on his chin that had required a few stitches. “I told you it was just a scratch. And yes,” he adds before Bitty can ask, “I’m using that scar balm you sent in the package with the jam.”

“Well, good.” Bitty smiles, pleased. “And you liked the jam?”

“My PB&J routine wouldn’t be the same without it,” Jack admits. “You said it’s your aunt’s recipe?”

Bitty launches into a long monologue about jams and jellies and family recipes and some longstanding feud between his mother and her sister that Jack’s heard before but still can’t quite follow. He just nods every once in a while and sips his coffee, enjoying the sound of Bitty talking.

“Oh lord.” Bitty finally takes a breath. “You had a question for me, and here I am blathering about jam for the umpteenth time. What were you going to ask me about?”

“Oh, uh …” Right. Jack did have something on his mind. “How was Winter Screw?” 

“Oh.” Bitty’s face sours. “It was …”

“Come on, it can’t be worse than the guy who puked on your shoes.”

“Okay, fine. It didn’t _quite_ reach that level of miserable. But my date did get very drunk and very handsy and when I said no he went off and danced with his ex, who is apparently into that kind of thing.”

“Aw, Bits. I’m sorry.”

“I guess maybe it’s tradition now. Is it even Winter Screw if Bittle doesn’t have a terrible date?” Bitty shrugs like it’s not a big deal but it feels like a big deal. “I just … Why do guys only find me attractive when they’re drunk, Jack?”

“That’s not true,” Jack protests. It can’t be true. Bitty is perfect. Who _wouldn’t_ want him? He’s kind and thoughtful, damn good at hockey, and always ready with a pie. He’s the whole package, as far as Jack is concerned.

“Jack, honey,” Bitty says placatingly. “It really really is. It’s fine. Chowder and Dex say I just have to expand my network. Nursey has this friend in his playwriting class he’s going to set me up with after break. Apparently liberal arts gays are more evolved than sports gays.”

“I don’t know,” Jack hedges. “Lardo’s told me about some of the art department parties.”

“I don’t want to hear that!” Bitty puts his hands over his ears. “Let me take comfort in the delusion that somebody on this campus might actually want to date me instead of just get in my pants for a night.”

All of the feelings Jack has been ignoring all day — ignoring for the past seven months, if he’s being honest — suddenly come back all at once and instead of reassuring Bitty that there are plenty of guys who’d want to date him, all Jack can think is that it should be _him_.

That nagging feeling Jack couldn’t quite name at graduation, the one he’s carried with him since he hugged Bitty goodbye that day, isn’t nostalgia or anxiety about his future or anything at all related to Samwell or the NHL.

It’s love. He’s in love with Eric Bittle.

And as quickly as he has the thought and can name it, Jack knows it can’t happen.

The life he’s built over the past six months is everything Jack dreamed about when he was a little kid sleeping with one of his father’s pucks under his pillow. Sure, it’s a little routine, but Jack thrives on routine. In that regard, this new life in the NHL is perfect for him.

He wakes up, runs five miles, drinks his protein shake, showers, eats breakfast, practices. He sits down for interviews and poses for photographers — he is, after all, “the new face of the franchise” — and discusses endorsement offers with his agent. He’s not quite well known enough to garner interest from major companies, but there’s an indie startup that’s interested in working with him to promote a recovery drink.

He eats more and plays games and talks to more reporters and after that he talks to his father. Part of Jack is waiting for the day Bob will tell him he messed up, he could have done better, but that day doesn’t come. Win or lose, his father always ends the conversation with, “We’re so proud of you, Jack.

It’s everything Jack has ever wanted.

But there’s a gnawing space at the center of it all, and Jack can no longer deny it’s the exact size and shape of Eric Bittle. The frequent texts and FaceTime calls, the selfies Bitty sends after practice or from the Haus kitchen, aren’t enough to fill it. Even a day like today, just the two of them hanging out the way they used to, can’t fill it.

“You gonna eat the rest of that?” Bitty asks, indicating Jack’s barely-touched muffin. “Because practice was intense today and I could really —”

“Take it,” Jack says, pushing his plate across the table. He’s still trying to unpack this information and what it means for him. For them. Bitty delicately picks off a piece of muffin and pops it in his mouth, completely oblivious to the fact that Jack has just realized he’s in love with him.

And he’s going to stay oblivious, if Jack has anything to say about it. The timing couldn’t be worse. There’s a lot riding on this season. He needs to be the person the Falcs thought he was when they took a chance on him, worthy of the ‘A’ he wears on his chest. Dating somebody — even if that somebody happens to be his best friend — would only throw a wrench into his carefully regimented life. He already feels bad when he can’t spend an hour listening to Shitty vent about the “trust fund assholes” in his 1L class (“ _You’re_ a trust fund asshole,” he told him) or make it to SMH home games. How is he going to feel when he can’t be with Bitty on his birthday or Valentine’s Day? How will Bitty feel? It wouldn’t be fair to either of them. Especially Bitty, who deserves the world.

There’s also the not-so-insignificant fact that Jack is still closeted, and there aren’t any out players in the NHL. Could Jack be the first? Does he want to be? Would it be harder to hide his relationship or come out? These are questions he asked himself once before, heading into the draft. He’d thought, somewhat vaguely, that somebody else would come out by the time he had to think about it again.

“What’s wrong?” Bitty asks. Of course Bitty’s picked up on Jack’s change in mood. Bitty’s like that. It’s one of the reasons Jack loves him.

Fuck.

“Do you think my parents will like those gifts? Should I get something to go with them? Like a gift card to a restaurant?”

“Honey, those gifts are lovely and you know what they want most is to enjoy the holiday with you. Skip the gift card and offer to help your dad make dinner instead. You can share that pie with them.”

“That pie is mine.”

Bitty giggles. “Well, then I’ll send you with a bag of cookies for them. The pie should freeze well enough.”

Bitty in short shorts and a tank top on the Fourth of July. Bitty brushing up against a player from an opposing team — the closest he’s ever gotten to an actual check — and making Jack feel like his heart is going to explode with joy. Bitty dancing in the kitchen and singing slightly off-key. Bitty holding Jack after that heartbreaker of a loss that ended Jack’s college hockey career.

It all seems so obvious now that this was never going to go any other way. That’s the way it was with hockey, too. And just like with hockey, Jack will have to be patient and work on himself before he can even entertain the idea that this thing with Bitty will go his way.

“You know,” Bitty says, suddenly changing the subject, “it’s probably just as well that I’m not dating anybody right now. I don’t know when I’ll be ready to come out to my parents, and I sure wouldn’t want to go back for Christmas with a boyfriend I have to keep a secret. At least I won’t have to lie when everyone asks me if I’m seein’ anyone.”

Jack nods. If Bitty can be logical about this, so can he.

They linger in Annie’s for another hour, and while part of Jack would like to flee so he can panic in private, a bigger part of him wants to stay here so he can remember himself and Bitty just like this. They talk about hockey and their friends and Bitty’s classes and hockey and pie and hockey, conversations they’ve had a hundred times and will have a hundred more, but Jack will never get tired of having them with Bitty.

The sun has long since set when they leave Annie’s and the temperature actually has dropped enough to _maybe_ warrant a light jacket. Jack insists on driving Bitty back to the Haus. “Wouldn’t want you to die of hypothermia out there,” he can’t resist chirping.

“How would you even live with yourself if I did?” Bitty asks.

“I wouldn’t. That’s why I got you this.” Jack pops open the glove box and pulls out Bitty’s Christmas present.

“But I don’t have anything for you!” Bitty frets.

“Bits, you made me a pie. And cookies. And you send me those care packages like every week.”

“You really like the care packages? I was starting to worry its too much.”

“It’s never too much. Best part of my week.”

“Lies. The best part of your week is whenever you score.”

“Second best part of my week,” Jack amends. “It’s Christmas. Just open it.”

“Well, if you insist,” Bitty grumbles, but he’s already slipping his thumb under the tape and carefully peeling the paper away. Now that Jack knows exactly how big his feelings for Bitty are, the gift seems terribly small, but Bitty’s delighted by it all the same. He immediately puts the hat on, pulling it down low over his ears. “How do I look?” he asks, flipping the sun visor down and angling his head so he can see himself in its small mirror.

“Like you’re dressed for a blizzard."

Bitty swats at him with one of the spatulas. “I love it. And I’m gonna hide these spatulas so nobody steals them. Did I tell you I caught Holster using one to eat peanut butter straight from the container?”

“Gross.”

“I know!” Bitty surges toward Jack, pulling him in for an awkward hug since Jack is still wearing his seatbelt. “You sure you don’t wanna come in and say hi to the guys?”

“I’ve got an early workout tomorrow.” Jack really would like to stay, but it's safer to leave.

“Oh, okay.” Bitty looks a little sad. “I should pack, anyway. My flight leaves pretty early in the morning. I’ll just run in and get your pie and cookies to take home.”

*

Jack’s home alone, eating a slice of Bitty’s apple pie and watching SportsCenter, when he gets his usual goodnight text from Bitty: “It was so good to see you! Thanks for the gifts. And the coffee. Merry Christmas!”

It takes Jack an impossibly long time to summon the three words he finally sends, woefully inadequate words that do nothing to tell Bitty how he really feels: “Merry Christmas, Bittle.”

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever find the words to bridge the gap between the things he says and the things he wants to say.


	2. 2020

“Well, of all the airport bars in the world, Jack Zimmermann, what are the chances I’d meet you here?” Bitty plays up his accent, drawing out his vowels in the way that always makes Jack smile.

Jack huffs out a laugh and hands Bitty a beer. “Odds are pretty good, since we’re on the same flight. What took you so long?”

“Oh, hush,” Bitty grumbles as he settles into the seat across from Jack. “Spare a thought for us peasants who can’t afford Pre-Check and Clear and whatever else y’all are using to speed through security these days. Lord, that was a shitshow. Thought I’d miss the flight.”

“Not likely. It’s delayed. I talked to the gate agent before you got here. There’s some issue with the plane coming in from California.”

“Yeah, I got the update when I was putting my shoes on. Why did I wear lace-up boots to the airport?”

Jack shrugs and takes a pull of his beer. “Speaking of shitshows —”

“Oh my lord, Jack. Can you even believe we got invited to this wedding?”

“They wouldn’t be together if it weren’t for us,” Jack says, matter-of-fact.

“Well, that’s for sure. Just think, if either of us had been at all charming, one of us might be getting married tomorrow instead.”

Jack was right, all those years ago. There are plenty of guys, nice guys, who want to date Bitty. Some of them even make it past the first date. Luke was one of them, and if things had gone differently Bitty might not be here with Jack right now at all.

They had a good run of about a year and a half, having met not long after Bitty moved to Providence after graduation. Luke was Georgia Martin's personal assistant, and Jack was the one who introduced them. He fit right in with their group of friends, almost as if he’d been around forever. So did Tim, “the only decent bro” from the firm Shitty joined after law school.

Bitty had known Jack was bisexual for a while but until then Jack had only dated women, if he dated at all. Mostly, Jack didn’t date at all. It had felt like a kick to the gut when Jack and Tim quietly began seeing each other. Bitty was long past his college crush on Jack but there were moments when all those feelings came rushing back, and Jack and Tim becoming “Zim and Tim” was one of them. Why, he’d wondered at the time, hadn’t it ever been him? He didn’t dwell on it for very long because he was with Luke, and they were happy. Luke even went home with Bitty for the Fourth of July, and Mama and Coach loved him.

Jack and Tim were together for about six months, and Jack had just started talking about publicly coming out, when their relationship abruptly ended. “He said I was boring and too focused on hockey,” Jack told Bitty, who’d been outraged on Jack’s behalf. “But that’s your job!” Bitty protested. “What would he do if you told him he’s too focused on workers’ rights?”

“Well, he was also upset that I kept picking World War II documentaries every time it was my turn to choose what we watched on TV,” Jack said self-deprecatingly.

Secretly Bitty agreed with Tim on that one, but hockey and history were two of Jack’s passions, like baking and Beyoncé were Bitty’s, and anybody who didn’t understand that would never be right for Jack. Anyway, Tim clearly never learned that if you start to nod off on Jack’s shoulder in the middle of a boring documentary, he’ll absently play with your hair until you fall asleep.

A few weeks later, Bitty had his own announcement. “Must be something in the air,” he told Jack. “Me and Luke are over, too.” It was a stupid argument that spiraled until they realized they had different goals for the future. Luke didn’t want to get married. Bitty did. Neither was willing to budge.

It was a good five months before Luke and Tim started dating, and nobody could really prove they’d been interested in each other before their respective breakups. They’d all been friends, and as the only ones in the group who weren’t part of the original SMH crew, it made sense that they turned to each other in the aftermath.

Now, Luke and Tim are getting married — so much for Luke not being “the marrying type” — and as awkward as it is, they’d insisted on having Bitty and Jack there as groomsmen. “You guys are the reason we’re together,” Luke explained to Bitty when he tried to politely decline.

Jack had a charity thing at the children’s hospital earlier today, and Bitty hasn’t yet accrued vacation time in his new job at a boutique advertising agency, so they’re both flying out to Luke’s native Colorado tonight for the Christmas Day wedding. Jack paid for Bitty’s first class upgrade, despite Bitty’s protests.

Bitty eventually relented when Jack explained it was his Christmas gift, and it was as much a gift for himself as it was for Bitty, since what would be the point of taking the same flight if they just ended up sitting alone? Now Bitty’s glad they planned to fly out together. Faced with the prospect of spending Christmas Eve in the airport while he waits for his flight to his ex-boyfriend’s wedding, there’s nobody he’d rather be with than his best friend.

“How are you really doing with all of this?” Jack asks. The Christmas lights strung up in the dim bar cast a soft light on him, highlighting his sharp cheekbones and jawline. Idly, Bitty wonders if the past three nights of pulling all-nighters for a new account they’re trying to win show on his face.

“Aside from the fact that Luke said he never wanted to get married? I know our breakup was mutual, and I really am over him, but it’s hard to not take it personally when it turns out Luke wasn’t against marriage, he was just against marrying _me_.”

“His loss. Now the guy has to live the rest of his life without your maple apple pie.”

“You’re going to be so disappointed to find out I sent him one on his birthday.”

“ _Bits_.” Jack presses his knee against Bitty’s under the table. “Tim snores. Luke’s going to have to live with that for the rest of his life, too.”

This time Bitty does crack a smile. “ _You_ snore.”

Jack chooses to ignore the chirp. “And you’d have to go to Colorado for Christmas every year.”

“I’ve never been to Colorado.”

“You won’t like it,” Jack says with certainty.

“You don’t know that,” Bitty says just to be a little shit, because Jack is probably right.

“Do you like to ski? You don’t even like walking around in the snow.”

“I think I’d like sitting by the fire in a ski lodge with a glass of wine and a handsome man by my side.”

Jack snorts. “I’m sure you would. But you don’t need to go to Colorado to do that.”

“I think you’re just bitter because y’all lost to the Avs last year.”

“Maybe,” Jack concedes. “But if all you want is to go to a ski lodge, we can go to a ski lodge. There’s a nice one in Vermont.” 

By the time they finish their first beer, their flight’s been delayed by another hour. They order another round and split an order of mozzarella sticks while the bar only becomes more packed with disgruntled travelers who were hoping to be on their way to someplace else by now.

“You think we’ll make it out on time?” Bitty asks. “Maybe I should go talk to someone.”

At the gate, they’re told the airline is still trying to secure another plane, but if one doesn’t come through within the next half hour their flight will be delayed until tomorrow morning. “If you want to stick around,” the agent says, “we’ll start handing out hotel vouchers as soon as we get the word. There’s a shuttle that can take you over to the Hilton for the night.”

At 10:45, the airline calls it and begins handing out the hotel vouchers. Bitty suggests just going home, but Jack convinces him to take the offer: “The new flight leaves at five-thirty, if we stay here that’s an extra half hour of sleep.”

*

It’s almost midnight by the time they check into the hotel, whose lobby is festively decorated with a huge tree. They’re given a room with a single bed, either because they look like a couple or it’s all that’s left. It doesn’t matter; they’ve shared before. Enough people took the airline up on their voucher offer they’re lucky they got a room at all.

The bare bones hotel room, absolutely devoid of any hint of Christmas, is nicer than the ones they used to stay in when traveling as a team but probably not as nice as the ones Jack stays in when he travels for work, and definitely not as nice as the ones he stays in on vacation. There’s a love seat, a bathroom, a flat screen TV on the wall across from the bed. For the few hours they’ll be here, it will do.

“At least I don’t snore,” Bitty jokes, and it’s enough to elicit rare audible laughter from Jack. “I’m just gonna call my parents to wish them a Merry Christmas Eve and tell them we’re not flying until tomorrow.”

“Good idea. I’ll text Shitty and tell him about the delay. I don’t want to bother Tim and Luke.” Jack heads into the bathroom to give Bitty some privacy.

Bitty’s conversation with his parents is tense and full of forced cheer. This isn’t the first time he’s skipped Christmas in Madison, but it had been hard to explain that this year it’s because he needs to go to his ex-boyfriend’s wedding.

“If you’d’ve come home instead,” Mama says smugly, “you’d already be here instead of alone on Christmas Eve.”

“It’s fine, Mama,” Bitty says, wondering if it’s possible to feel even more tired than he already was. “Anyway, I’m with Jack. We’re flying out together.”

“Well, if you’re with Jack,” she says, sounding a little happier. “Give that boy a hug for us and wish him Merry Christmas.”

Bitty smiles in spite of himself. His parents have loved Jack — and professional hockey — ever since he visited over that one Fourth of July. They even fly a Falcs flag from the front porch on game days, unless there's a conflict with the UGA game. 

“I will, Mama. I love you. Merry Christmas. Can I talk to Daddy?”

Jack wanders in as Bitty is saying goodbye to his father, who is equally perplexed but less judgmental about Bitty’s holiday plans. Jack looks good in the sweatpants and tight long-sleeved t-shirt he changed into. Five years as one of the NHL’s leading scorers have done good — Bitty would say _amazing_ — things for Jack’s physique. He’d be tempted to say it’s not fair, except he knows how hard Jack works. What’s kind of unfair is that no matter how hard Bitty works, he still can’t quite achieve his peak NCAA fitness level.

“My parents send their love,” Bitty tells him, tossing his phone onto the love seat.

“Shitty said he’ll pass the message along and that all we’ve missed is last minute wedding drama,” Jack replies. “Apparently one of the groomsmen got food poisoning at lunch today, and the roses the florist ordered are the wrong color. Luke’s mom is about to shit a brick. Shitty’s words, not mine.”

“Luke’s mom would,” Bitty says, recalling a meltdown over a twenty minute wait for dinner the one time she visited them in Providence. “You and I both know neither of those boys cares about the color of the roses.”

“At least Tim’s the one who gets to call her ‘mother-in-law’ for the rest of his life.”

“You’ve made your point, Mr. Zimmermann.” Bitty plops down onto the love seat and begins taking off his boots. “Hope you don’t mind if I sleep in my boxers. All my clothes are in my checked bag.”

A strange look crosses Jack’s face but it’s gone before Bitty can interpret it. Instead, he rummages through his duffel and pulls out a sweatshirt, which he tosses at Bitty’s head. “Take it,” he says. “You get colder than I do, anyway.”

It’s a relief to trade his sweater for Jack’s soft hoodie, a relic dating back to his frog year at Samwell. It smells like Jack. Bitty pulls his hands into the frayed cuffs and settles back onto the couch.

“Oh, hey. You hungry?” Jack, still rooting around in his bag, extracts a large, paper-wrapped salami. “My agent sends a Harry and David box every year. It arrived right before I left.”

“Oh my lord.” Leave it to Jack to pack shelf stable meat for an in-flight snack.

“I think it freaked the security guys out a little. It took them a while to get it through the x-ray machine.”

“Oh _my lord._ ” Now Bitty’s really laughing. “You know they probably thought it was a —”

“I know.” Jack smirks.

“Oh no, Mr. TSA Agent,” Bitty purrs seductively. “I’m not hiding anything. That’s just my really big salami.”

“It is a salami,” Jack says, like he doesn’t get the joke.

“Did you tell ‘em you were on your way to a gay wedding? Because that really would have been something.” Now that Bitty’s on a roll, he can’t stop himself.

“If you keep chirping me, I’m not going to share. There’s cheese and crackers, too.”

There’s also a bottle of Prosecco in the mini bar, and Jack doesn’t think twice about opening it while Bitty saws away at the cheese and salami with a plastic fork he found next to the coffee maker. “It’s Christmas Eve,” Jack says when Bitty gives him a Look.

They sit next to each other and take turns drinking straight from the bottle while they finish off the makeshift charcuterie platter. Jack turns on the TV and finds a channel showing a yule log with Christmas music. It’s more melancholy than festive, but it’s also comfortable and warm here pressed against Jack. As cramped as they are here on this way-too-small couch, Bitty could fall asleep just like this.

“You’ll have to thank your agent for me,” Bitty whispers. “Best Christmas ever.” He’s fighting to keep his eyes open and losing the battle.

“It is Christmas, isn’t it?” Jack asks, looking at his watch. “We should get to bed. Early flight.”

“Please tell me you aren’t getting up to run,” Bitty groans. “You can take a rest day on Christmas.”

“I’ll take a rest day on Christmas,” Jack promises.

“Didja work out today?” Bitty’s pretty sure he’s slurring his words at this point, but he’s too tired to care.

“Ran eight miles.”

Bitty pokes him. “Jack. Why?” He knows why. Jack Zimmermann works harder than God, even on his days off. It’s a blessing and a curse, Jack once confessed. Even when his body needs a break, his mind craves the release of physical activity. Bitty gets it, mostly. With the way he’s been working, getting into the office before the sun comes up and leaving after it sets, he could use a little more of it himself. Instead, he just drinks a lot of triple-shot mochas from the fancy espresso maker in the break room. Still, he’s pretty sure eight miles on Jack’s day off from playing professional hockey is a little excessive.

Bitty can think of one or two other physical activities that could satisfy that urge without putting so much stress on Jack’s poor body — he really does worry that he’s going to overdo it one of these days — but he immediately banishes those thoughts to the place all of his other thoughts about Jack-as-more-than-a-friend reside. So what if Bitty’s not _entirely_ over his crush on Jack. Sometimes, especially when they’re easy and relaxed like this, it’s easy to remember that feeling of being 19 and goofing off in the kitchen with his cute captain.

And sometimes, like tonight, Bitty thinks Jack might feel the same way. Jack’s looking at him very intently and he keeps starting to talk and then hesitating, like he can’t quite get the words out. Maybe the alcohol and late hour are getting to him, too.

“You need to get laid,” Bitty says, surprising himself with his boldness after all. It catches Jack off guard, too. He immediately turns red. “I mean,” Bitty backpedals, “it’s been a long time, right? And that’s a lot more fun than running eight miles.”

“It hasn’t been that long, Bittle,” Jack mutters, and Bitty immediately regrets saying anything. If Jack were seeing somebody he would tell Bitty, but he doesn’t usually mention his casual hookups, just like Bitty doesn’t mention his own.

“Sorry, sorry,” Bitty babbles as his face burns. “I didn’t — of course you probably —”

“It’s been seven months,” Jack clarifies, and Bitty suddenly feels like laughing. Leave it to Jack to consider seven months without sex “not that long.”

Bitty shrugs. “Four for me. I was kind of hoping for a one-night fling at the wedding.”

“Then you need your beauty sleep. C’mon, Bittle. Bed.”

“Carry me,” Bitty pouts. “I’m too tired to walk.”

“The bed is like two feet away. I could throw you.” In one swift movement, Jack’s on his feet and Bitty’s hanging over his shoulder, staring at the ground.

“Oof,” Bitty huffs when he hits the mattress. Jack just smirks. From this angle he looks taller than ever, and when he begins to take off his shirt Bitty can’t take his eyes off of him. There’s a new scar on his left side, still raw and angry looking. Bitty fights the compulsion to kiss it better.

“I’m setting the alarm for four,” he says as Bitty scrambles under the covers.

“Four-fifteen,” Bitty whispers, eyes already closed. He feels Jack slip into bed beside him.

“Four-ten. We don’t know what security is going to be like.”

They both wiggle around a little, trying to get comfortable. Somehow, they end up forehead to forehead, an intimacy that makes Bitty’s heart ache because it’s been so long since he’s been this close to anybody.

“Isn’t it weird to think that our endings with Luke and Tim were their beginning?” Bitty whispers. “It’s like, something that didn’t work out for either of us ended up being their meet-cute. That’s the story they’ll tell their grandkids.” Bitty’s not jealous, he really isn’t. It’s late, he’s tired, and for some reason the situation strikes him as particularly absurd.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” Jack says.

“Hm?”

“If I hadn’t survived my overdose I wouldn’t be here.”

The shock of it feels like plunging into a cold lake on New Year’s Day. They’ve been friends for so long and Jack is so far from who he was at 18 — or who he was when he and Bitty met, for that matter — that sometimes Bitty forgets about that part of his history.

“I wouldn’t have any of this if not for that. Good things can come from bad things.” Jack ever so lightly bumps Bitty’s forehead with his own.

Bitty’s breath catches in his throat.

It would be so easy to do it now. He could just tell Jack how he feels. He’s pretty sure that if he did, Jack wouldn’t shoot him down. Not with the way he’s been looking at him all night, and chirping him. Chirping is just another form of flirting, after all, and he and Jack have never stopped chirping each other. That has to mean something, right?

“We can still skip the wedding,” Bitty says. “Sleep in and say we missed our flight. Go to that ski resort in Vermont instead.”

“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” Jack says, and Bitty’s shocked that he’s even considering it.

“I may even try a lesson,” Bitty says. “Just so I can earn that glass of wine in front of the fire.”

“Go to sleep, Bittle,” Jack warns, but Bitty can hear the smile in his voice.

Jack falls asleep before Bitty, which Bitty only knows because Jack Zimmermann absolutely _does_ snore. Bitty pokes him in the side until he stops, but a minute later he’s back at it. It doesn’t really bother Bitty. It’s kind of comforting. Whatever Jack may say about _Tim’s_ snoring, Bitty thinks he would be lucky to fall asleep like this every night if it were with Jack.

But whatever Bitty may feel for Jack, the fact remains that Jack is Bitty’s best friend. And best friends are in it for the long haul. Boyfriends, Bitty has learned, bolt when you become too needy or high maintenance, or start hinting that you might — _one day_ , many years from now — want to get married.

Boyfriends come and go, sometimes in the middle of the night with half of Bitty’s wardrobe, but Jack is always there. Steady, solid, comfortable Jack. Why would Bitty do anything to ruin that?

*

Four-ten arrives too soon, and with it Jack’s sense of honor and responsibility. “We can’t go to Vermont,” he sighs as they shuffle through security. “We said we’d be at the wedding.”

Bitty has a slight hangover. If he didn’t he might put up more of a fight, convince Jack to run away with him. Only later, in the air and halfway to Colorado, does it occur to him that maybe Jack _wanted_ him to put up a fight.


	3. 2025

Shitty and Lardo’s winter solstice party is an annual tradition, started in the first years after graduation as a way to see everyone before they went home to celebrate the holidays with their families or, eventually, their partners’ families. Jack doesn’t always make it, but a matinee game this afternoon means he has just enough time to go home and change before making the drive to Haus 3.0, the little craftsman Shitty and Lardo bought last year.

The familiar scent of apple pie greets him as he lets himself into the condo. Bitty’s on the couch, half his attention on the NHL post-game recap and half on his phone, until Jack collapses next to him on the couch. There’s already an ice pack sitting in a bowl on the coffee table. Jack gratefully takes it and presses it to his knee.

“Nice hatty,” Bitty says, raising an imaginary glass. “Vanessa called it a Christmas gift to the city of Providence in her report.”

Jack grins. “Have to give ‘em what they want, eh?”

“What they want, Mr. Zimmermann, is another championship.”

“Working on that, too.” If they do go all the way this year, it will be a hard road. They’re a young team, in the midst of a rebuilding phase after Marty and Thirdy’s retirement a few years ago and Snowy’s trade to the Schooners. Jack still plays first line and leads the team in scoring, but at 35 he’s not as quick as he used to be. His knee has been giving him trouble. It’s not a matter of _if_ he’ll need surgery, but when.

“This is gonna be your year,” Bitty says. “I just know it.”

Bitty’s not the first person to make this prediction. Jack’s dad still follows the league with a keen eye, and he thinks the Cup is theirs to lose this year.

“We’ll see,” Jack says.

“I hope you don’t mind I let myself in. My oven’s on the fritz again. Plus, your TV is better for watching the game. And your couch is better for napping.”

“Are you saying you slept through my game?” Jack smirks. “Three goals not impressive enough for you?”

“No, no!” Bitty laughs. “I got here early. The family above me is always so loud on the weekends. The sweetest kids you’ll ever meet but they’re up and running around by six a.m.”

“ _You_ should try running at six a.m,” Jack chirps. “Problem solved.”

“On a _weekend_?” Bitty scoffs, his feelings about the matter apparent. “You gonna come over and pick me up like you used to before checking practice? I don’t know if I’m motivated to get up myself. Bed magnet’s too strong.”

“You know you could just move in. Make it easier for both of us.” It’s an old argument. Bitty had been adamant, when he moved to Providence right after graduation, that he get his own place. His parents were already put out because he didn’t want to go home to Georgia. He wanted to prove to them he could make it on his own without help from his rich best friend.

It’s been eight years and Bitty’s done plenty well for himself, but he still insists on maintaining some personal distance. The most Jack can get him to agree to is a key to the condo so he can come and go as he pleases.

“If my landlord raises my rent again, I just may take you up on that. For what I pay, he could at least get a decent oven in there,” Bitty grumbles.

“What did you make for tonight?”

“Flourless chocolate cake. The pie is for you. It’s got five more minutes and then we can go, so get dressed, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack wanders into his room to get ready while Bitty busies himself in the kitchen. He wishes Bitty _would_ move in. The place is so full of life when Bitty’s here. Even if he’s baking in the kitchen and Jack is in the other room going over tape or reading a book and they don’t speak for hours, Bitty’s presence is comfortable and comforting.

“How do I look?”

Bitty looks up from the counter, where he’s just set the pie to cool off. His eyes scan Jack from head to toe, taking in the maroon sweater and dark jeans Jack selected, and he smiles in approval. “You look very sharp.” He rises onto his toes and brushes a stray lock of hair away from Jack’s eyes. “Hair’s getting long again,” he observes.

“Yeah. Haven’t had time to take care of it.”

“I like it,” Bitty pronounces. He frowns at a smudge of flour on his own jeans and brushes it off. “Shall we, Mr. Zimmermann?” he asks, tucking his cake carrier under one arm and offering the other to Jack.

*

Shitty and Lardo don’t quite live in the suburbs, but it’s close enough that Jack’s started giving them a hard time about getting old and settling down. If you ask Shitty, he’ll tell you it’s because the new house has a detached mother-in-law setup that Lardo can use as a studio. Lardo insists it was for the tax benefits.

They have to park halfway down the street, an actual improvement over Haus 2.0, where they would have been lucky to get a spot within a quarter-mile radius. They walk in to a party well underway, full of faces both familiar and new.

Holster meets them at the door and hands them cups of tub juice. Behind him, Ransom makes a slashing motion over his throat. Holster, somehow sensing he’s being sabotaged, elbows him.

Ransom ignores the rebuke. “Proceed with caution. This year’s vintage is especially potent,” he warns.

Bitty, cup halfway to his lips, pauses. “Is that a bottle of red over there?” he asks, peering around their friends.

“Just drink it, Bits. Rans is just getting too old to do this.”

Bitty takes a hearty drink and immediately grimaces. “Lord. I think we’re all too old to be doing this,” he chokes out, but he chugs the rest and receives a thump on the back from Holster for his effort.

“Jack?” Holster raises an eyebrow, and he knows they’re not going to get in the door otherwise, so he drinks. Bitty was right. They’re too old for this.

“Good job, boys,” Holster takes their empty cups and moves to the side to allow them to pass.

“You aren’t making everyone do this, are you?” Bitty asks, a little uncertainly. “Shitty and Lardo’s new neighbors might prefer something that goes down a little easier.”

“Don’t worry, there’s wine in the kitchen. It even cost more than three bucks.”

“Well, thank the lord for that,” Bitty mutters, and heads in that direction to put the cake away.

Over the years this party has expanded to include people from all areas of Shitty and Lardo’s lives: neighbors, co-workers, law school classmates, people from Shitty’s taiko drumming group, the Red Sox season ticket-holding couple who own the seats next to theirs. Jack kind of misses the old days, when it was just their small SMH group and their significant others. He could be himself back then, but in this larger crowd he has to smile and make the rounds, politely answer questions about himself and his team.

They’ve been at the party for an hour, and Jack hasn’t seen Bitty at all, when he suddenly appears at his side. “Hey, bud. Thought you skipped out.”

“No, um …” Bitty looks a little glassy-eyed and flushed, possibly a side effect of the tub juice but it’s still early so probably not. “I just got some news.”

Jack’s heart starts beating double-time. “Everything okay? Your parents are —”

“They’re fine. It was a work call.”

“On a Sunday? Bits, you can’t keep letting them take advantage —”

“No, no, it was good news,” Bitty reassures him. He places a hand on Jack’s arm. “I need to tell you —”

“Attention!” Shitty bellows, entering the living room from the hallway and interrupting whatever Bitty was about to say. Lardo’s with him. She’s wearing the same green velvet minidress and combat boots she’s been wearing all night, but Shitty’s plaid pajama pants and Knope 2016 shirt have been replaced by a hideous tan suit. Both look slightly disheveled.

“Attention friends, bros, and neighbors! Thank you for coming to the ninth annual Knight-Duan Winter Solstice party.”

Ransom and Holster whoop. Everybody else politely claps as the crowd parts to let Shitty hold court in the center.

“Lards and I appreciate all of you coming out here tonight,” Shitty continues, a little louder than necessary. “I know we’re all busy doing boring adult stuff, and it means a lot that you still care enough to come out to party with us.”

“Hell, yeah!” Holster yells.

“Like Jack Zimmermann back there, who just won a hockey game!”

There’s a small smattering of applause and somebody pats Jack on the back.

“Oh lord, he’s going to say something about every one of us, isn’t he,” Bitty whispers as Shitty gives a shoutout to Ransom and Holster for making the tub juice.

“Sounds like it,” Jack whispers back, wondering if it’s safe to sneak away for some fresh air.

“Bits! My itty Bitty!” Bitty buries his face in his hands as Shitty points to him. “This man makes the best damn cake in Providence but he’s wasting his life away in advertising.”

“Oh my god,” Bitty moans from behind his hands.

“And this woman right here!” Shitty continues. He regards Lardo with what appears to be genuine reverence. “My queen. I don’t know where I’d be without her. So we talked about it, and we’re gonna do it.”

“Huh?” Bitty asks.

Jack is just as bewildered until Lardo smacks Shitty and takes over. “This idiot will blather on and cry all night, so I’m just gonna say it. Shitty and I are getting married!”

“Oh my lord. Congratulations, y’all!”

“How long have you been keeping this a secret?” Holster yells.

“I literally proposed like five minutes ago,” Lardo says. “Nobody is keeping any secrets.”

“It was in the bathroom,” Shitty adds unnecessarily. (Jack hears a whispered “fine” from Ransom.) “Lardo’s necklace got caught on her zipper and I was helping her get it untangled, and that’s when I realized I don’t want to spend another minute not being married to her.”

“So I said let’s do it,” Lardo adds. “Everybody’s already here.”

“Is there a minister in the house?” Shitty asks. “I know somebody here must be authorized to perform a wedding.”

There’s a collective gasp as every person in the room realizes the Knight-Duan Winter Solstice party has just turned into a wedding.

“I’m ordained.” One of Shitty’s lawyer friends, a guy named Pedro who inexplicably goes by Chuck, raises his hand.

Things move quickly after that. Bitty and Jack are pulled in as witnesses, Shitty and Lardo recite some impromptu vows, Pedro/Chuck says some official-sounding words, there’s a kiss, and suddenly Shitty Knight and Lardo Duan are Mr. and Mrs. Knight-Duan. (Pending further discussion, since they didn’t take the time to consider last names.) The whole thing takes less than five minutes.

In years to come, Jack will look at the hastily snapped picture of the smiling “wedding party” and remember the moment as a turning point, the very last moment before everything changed: the “before” before everything after.

*

It’s after midnight but everybody has a second wind after the impromptu wedding ceremony. Somebody has put on a playlist of late-00s pop music and with the furniture moved to the edges of the room, there’s enough space for a makeshift dance floor. Bitty’s in the center of it all, demonstrating moves Jack hasn’t seen in years. There’s something to be said for muscle memory, he thinks as he watches Bitty suggestively roll his hips. Shitty is right there with him, valiantly trying (and failing) to keep up.

Jack has lost count of the number of times he’s been in this situation, watching Eric Bittle light up a room, loving him from afar.

He’s so captivated he doesn’t notice Lardo’s sidled up next to him, two glasses of something bubbly in hand. “If all it takes is a wedding to get Bits to dance like that again, I’d have asked Shitty to marry me a long time ago.” She hands one champagne flute off to Jack and drinks from the other.

“But then you would have had to see Shitty dance like that.”

“Bold of you to assume he doesn’t dance like that for me every night.”

Jack takes a long drink of champagne, eyes still glued to Bitty. “So. Married. I never expected you crazy kids to do it.”

Lardo shrugs. “Pretty sure Shitty would’ve held out forever just to spite his family, but we live in the suburbs now. The fuck else are we gonna do?”

“Ha ha.”

“You’ll never see me behind the wheel of a minivan, though.”

“‘Course not. We both know that’ll be Shitty.”

“Oh god, you’re right,” Lardo groans.

Lardo leans against Jack and they fall into comfortable silence as they watch the loves of their lives follow the music into the Single Ladies dance.

“Your arm must be tired from carrying that torch for so long,” Lardo finally says.

It’s not surprising that she’s caught on to Jack. What’s surprising is that it’s taken her so long to bring it up. Jack could deny it or play it off as the tub juice’s influence. He does neither.

“It helps that I’m a professional athlete,” he says, blunt and resigned. “Lots of time in the gym.”

Lardo barks out a sharp little laugh and immediately turns sober. “You’re both so dumb. Ten years is a stupid long time to pine for each other. Do you think he’s going to wait forever?”

Bitty’s … pining? This is news to Jack. Bitty once made a passing remark about having a little crush on Jack back in college, but he’d laughed it off and never mentioned it again. There have been times, over the years, when Jack thought they might be heading toward something more than friends. But every time they reach that crossroads, one of them pulls back.

He still wants to kick himself for making Bitty go to that wedding. They could have gone to Vermont. Why didn’t they go to Vermont?

“Do you think we should try? Do you think he wants to?”

Lardo shrugs. “I don’t talk about this with him. I don’t talk about it with you. I just see things.”

“It would be hard.” There’s some relief in confessing this for the first time.

“That’s how you know it’s worth it.”

“What if we break up?”

Lardo snorts. “Really? You have to date before you can break up.”

“He’s my best friend.”

“Shitty’s my best friend. Didn’t stop me from marrying him.”

“If we try and it ends, I don’t know if we could come back from that. You’ve heard about couples that break up and then never speak again. I can’t lose him.”

Lardo looks at Jack like he really is the world’s biggest idiot. “You’re telling me that you would really deny yourself this happiness on the very unlikely chance that you’ll break up? Stop overthinking this, Zimmermann. Pretend it’s hockey. You don’t think before you go for the goal, you just shoot.”

“Yeah.” The music changes to something slower: a song meant for lovers, or very good friends.

“Hey.” Jack places a hand on Lardo’s waist and gently spins her toward him. “I’m really happy for you guys.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty happy, too.” Lardo relaxes in Jack’s arms and lets him lead her around the dance floor until he’s delivered her to Shitty.

“Hey, no fair. I want in on this dance,” Shitty says, muscling his way between Jack and Lardo and wrapping his arms around Jack’s waist. “Missed you,” he says, resting his head on Jack’s shoulder.

“I’m not slow dancing with you, Shits,” Jack laughs, squirming out of his best friend’s embrace. “Take your bride.”

As they complete the handoff, Lardo rises on her toes and kisses Jack on the cheek. “Talk to him,” she whispers as Shitty leads her away. Jack follows her gaze to the other side of the room, where Bitty’s holding a glass of water and talking animatedly to Ransom and a tall brunette woman he thinks is one of Shitty and Lardo’s new neighbors.

It’s too hot in here, and Jack’s had just enough to drink that the noise and glare from the fairy lights strung around the room is making him a little dizzy. Lardo’s revelation also has him reeling. He needs air, some room to breathe.

Almost as though he senses Jack’s need, Bitty looks away from Ransom and the brunette and catches his eye. “Walk?” he mouths, pointing at the door.

Jack nods and waits, busies himself with looking for their coats on the rack by the door.

“Can you believe this night?” Bitty asks, taking his coat from Jack as they slip outside. “I can’t believe this night. Our friends are _married_!”

“I think I owe Ransom money.” Without discussing it, they’ve started walking. There’s a sort of ethereal, winter wonderland beauty to the neighborhood, the bare trees encased in shimmering ice exoskeletons after last night’s rain storm.

“And, oh! I still haven’t told you my news.” Bitty looks happy and hopeful and … nervous? “That call I took earlier was from my boss.”

“You could let it go to voicemail, you know.”

“My boss does not understand the concept of work-life balance.” Bitty stops under a streetlight and places a steadying hand on Jack’s arm to get him to stop too. “But this is good. So, remember a few weeks ago I told you we might get a big new account but I couldn’t tell you who?”

Jack nods. He’d come home from a late game to a baking frenzy in his kitchen, three pies and a quiche already cooling and a pan of brownies in the oven. Bitty had been full of barely restrained energy, bopping around the kitchen to something louder and clangier than usual, and it was all Jack could do to get him to sit down and spill as much as he was able to share over a slice of pie.

“Well, it’s Sift, the new line of artisan flours from Maggie Chen and Jason Clark. They’re doing a full launch in grocery and specialty food retail, and they want us to handle it all. They signed the contract last week. And Harrison wants me to lead it. He said they specifically asked for me because they like my work on the Kraft account.”

Bitty’s positively beaming; Jack suddenly has a flash of him looking just like this after his first assist as a frog. His hair was longer, his cheeks fuller, but the bright eyes and smile are exactly the same.

“Bits, that’s great!” Jack doesn’t keep up with the food and dining industry the way Bitty does but he knows Chen and Clark’s Los Angeles restaurant, Bread & Butter, has a year-long wait list.

“It’s a promotion and a new title. I’ll be a director!”

In an instant Jack has pulled Bitty into a tight hug. “You deserve it,” he murmurs into Bitty’s hair.

Bitty has been working on the Kraft account since he started at the agency, first assisting the account manager and eventually running whole campaigns, coming up with new ways to sell processed cheese and Kraft Dinner to a market increasingly dismissive of convenience foods. He’s sacrificed evenings out and vacations, putting work ahead of almost everything else in his life. Jack is wildly proud of Bitty, even if he wishes he’d work a little less and take a little better care of himself. He’s lost that bright aura that has always seemed to surround him and always seems tired these days. Right now, in Jack’s arms, he feels worryingly thin.

Despite that, everything that’s been weighing Bitty down seems to have fallen away. Here, under the glow of the streetlight, he’s positively radiant.

“I’m so proud of you.” Jack finally releases Bitty and takes a step back. It would be so easy to kiss him right now. With so much good news flying around — his hat trick earlier today, the wedding, Bitty’s promotion — Jack feels invincible. He can do this.

“There’s another thing.” Bitty’s hands flutter anxiously by his sides, one of his tells that he’s anxious and overwhelmed. He hesitates. “They want me to transfer to the California office. That’s where Chen and Clark are based, and they want the person on the account to be out there for easy access.”

Jack’s heart plummets to the ground.

“Oh.” Jack takes another step back. “Oh.”

Bitty has just gotten the biggest news of his career, and “ _oh_ ” is the only word Jack can think of to say. He tries to muster up that heady, buoyant joy he felt just a moment ago, but all that comes out is another “oh.” Bitty’s face goes in and out of focus, the whole rearranging itself into parts: flushed cheeks, two large eyes, downturned mouth.

Jack is having a panic attack. He’s having a panic attack right here in the middle of Shitty and Lardo’s suburban street, in front of the man he loves. As breakdowns go it’s not his worst. That’s an actual thought that comes and goes as Bitty’s face parts do some complicated thing Jack can’t quite decipher.

Suddenly Bitty’s holding him, grounding him with the pressure of his arms around his waist and his chin on his chest.

They breathe in tandem, inhaling and exhaling in the crisp winter air until Jack comes back to himself. Minutes pass and they don’t speak.

“Are you okay? Can you talk?” Bitty finally asks.

“Yeah. Thank you.”

“That was …” Bitty’s voice is very small and tight. “That was some reaction.”

“I wasn’t expecting that. Not,” he rushes to clarify, “that they love you and want to promote you. The California part.”

“I wasn’t expecting it either.”

“You’ve always wanted to go to California,” Jack says, forcing his tone to stay light.

“For vacation. Not to live.”

The realization that Bitty may actually move across the country, permanently, sends Jack spinning again but Bitty’s got him before he can leave himself. “I’m really scared, too,” Bitty finally says. He tilts his face to look up at Jack. “I’ve been here on the East Coast for my entire adult life. What if everyone in California hates me?”

Jack chokes out a laugh. “They aren’t going to hate you, Bittle. Everybody loves you.”

“You love me,” Bitty says, as if he’s only just now come to that realization.

Jack nods.

“I love you, too.”

Jack nods again. 

“I wish this had happened two months ago,” Bitty says sadly, and Jack knows he’s talking not about the job, but whatever they’ve decided to confess tonight.

“I wish it had happened ten years ago.” Jack’s trying for lighthearted. It comes out bitter.

“They said I can stay if I want. I won’t get the fancy new title or the Sift account, but I’ll keep my current job. I would stay if I had a reason.”

It sounds a lot like, “Give me a reason to stay,” and fuck, Jack just can’t do it. He won’t be the one to torpedo Bitty’s career when it’s finally taking off.

“If you do go … how permanent would it be? Can you come home?” They’re walking again. At some point Bitty tucked his hand into Jack’s and this small contact keeps Jack firmly grounded in the present.

“Minimum three year commitment. It’s gonna take some time to get the new campaign off the ground, and they won’t pay to move me out there without a return on their investment.”

“I have a good five years left in the league. Maybe more. I could live in California in the off-season.” It would be difficult, but they could make it work.

“Sweetheart, you’re hardly home as it is.”

“Bits, you’re my home.”

After, Jack isn’t able to say who initiated it. All he knows is that he and Bitty share their first kiss in a stranger’s front yard, observed by a stable of life-size wooden animals and a baby Jesus.

It’s been a long time since Jack has had a first kiss, even longer since he began fantasizing about this one. A little hum of pleasure rises out of Bitty’s throat, egging him on. A very small part of Jack is aware that he’s not technically out in the sense that he’s never made an official announcement, and they’re doing this in the middle of a street where anybody leaving the party might stumble upon them on the way to their cars. Jack cares less about that than the fact that there are more comfortable places to do this for the first time.

One of Bitty’s hands cups the back of Jack’s head, the other has settled somewhere on his hip, dangerously close to his ass. Bitty’s hands on him are doing things to him that he hasn’t felt in years.

“Bitty. Bits,” Jack groans. “Let’s go home.” They need to talk, yes, but Jack’s first priority is to find new ways to draw that breathy little noise out of Bitty. Preferably in a place where they both won’t freeze their balls off.

Immediately, he knows it was the wrong thing to say. Bitty goes rigid in his embrace. “Jack.” Bitty’s hand is cool on his cheek. “I need you to tell me you didn’t mean it.” Bitty’s eyes are wild, his voice raw with desperation.

“Bits —”

“You didn’t mean to kiss me,” he says more forcefully. “We both had too much to drink and got caught up in the moment.”

Jack understands what Bitty’s asking for. He wants an out. If Jack denies him this request, Bitty will turn down his dream job and stay here, and it will be Jack’s fault. Bitty will always say it was his choice to stay, but Jack will always know he was the one who held him back. “I didn’t mean it.” Jack’s voice cracks.

“I didn’t think so.”

“That tub juice was too strong.” Jack can do this. His mother is an actress. He’ll tap into whatever genetic reserve of talent he might possess in order to do this.

“We’re getting too old for tub juice.” Bitty’s voice is an octave too high and he’s wearing his fake smile, the one he puts on when he wants people to think he’s okay.

None of this is okay.

“Gosh, we should probably get back to the party. I want a dance with Lardo before the night is over.”

Jack remembers learning in a history class, or maybe in a picture book he used to read with his mom, that cultures all over the world burned candles or lit fires during the solstice to light the way through the longest, darkest night of the year. Eventually the tradition was co-opted by the Christians, and capitalism turned it into the garish display it is now. Tonight, the lights seem dull as they make their way back to Shitty and Lardo’s house.

It’s a smaller crowd when they get back; people have work tomorrow and sitters to get home to. Lardo looks up at the creak of the door, sees their dejected faces, and makes an “oh shit” face of her own.

“Hey, there’s somebody here I want to introduce you to.” Bitty tugs on Jack’s hand. They’re still holding hands. And Jack, shattered, heart somewhere outside on the icy sidewalk, is helpless to do anything but allow Bitty to lead him inside like a small child. “Allison!” Bitty calls, attracting the attention of the tall brunette he was talking to earlier.

“Allison is Shitty and Lardo’s neighbor,” Bitty explains as she approaches. “She grew up in Minnesota and played hockey through high school. Big Flyers fan.”

“Don’t hold that against me,” Allison says. “I went to Penn State for grad school.”

“They’re a good team,” Jack manages.

“Falcs are looking pretty good this year, too. Eric said he’s got some season tickets. I’d love to come out to a game.”

Jack meets Bitty’s gaze and holds it for one beat, two. Bitty swallows hard and nods, a short little jerk of his chin. “I’m gonna get a Lyft home,” he says lightly. Jack can hear the tremor in his voice. “Work tomorrow and all.”

“Right.”

“I’ll call you, um, sometime tomorrow probably. After I talk to my boss. We still need to talk about the menu for Christmas dinner.” Bitty can’t — or won’t — look Jack in the eye as Jack numbly returns his cursory hug and walks him to the door.

“Congratulations, Bits. I really am happy for you.”

“I know you are, sweetheart.” Bitty still won’t look at him. _Look at me!_ Jack wants to scream. _Give me some sign that we’re okay_.

Bitty pulls his coat around his slight frame and lets Lardo, who has quietly appeared by his side, walk him outside. Shitty pats Jack’s shoulder consolingly. Allison, too polite to let on that she’s just witnessed something intensely private, steps away. When she returns it’s with two bottles of water and a plate of cookies. “You want to go to my place and talk about it?”


	4. 2030

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [onawingandaswear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onawingandaswear/pseuds/onawingandaswear) for helping me articulate why plain, flannel-wearing Jack Zimmermann is so damn attractive to Bitty.
> 
> When I started writing this, I was envisioning a light, fluffy five-times Christmas fic about Jack Zimmermann being oblivious to his feelings. The story that has come out is a far angstier version, and I appreciate everyone who has stuck it out. The chapter is kind of the apex, angst-wise. I promise things get better after this.

Bitty has an orange tree in California.

His landlord, an older woman named Sheryl who used to work in “the industry” as a makeup artist, tried to bill it as a selling point. “You’ll have fresh juice all winter,” she told him. “And enough leftover to make marmalade or whatever else you can think of.”

Bitty made so much marmalade last winter he still has some in boxes in his one closet, underneath the skate bag he hasn’t opened since he moved here. He doesn’t know why he keeps dragging it from rental to rental like a security blanket, but there’s some comfort in knowing it’s here. Nobody skates in LA. Everybody hikes or runs instead.

Bitty tried hiking once, in the dry hills of Griffith Park a few months after he moved here. The sun was intense and bright and he’d been totally unprepared for the dry heat, so unlike the oppressive humidity of the South and Northeast. When he reached the observatory and stopped to take a picture, he got so dizzy he almost passed out and ended up dry heaving into a scraggly bush. A group of tan, fit young women in crop tops and leggings, sweatshirts tied around their waists, pointedly ignored him as they posed for selfies with the Hollywood sign in the distance.

Bitty kind of hates California. For all its progressiveness, Californians lack the warmth of Midwesterners and the social graces of Southerners.

His parents hate it too, he can tell, but they’ve come to accept this, just as they eventually came to accept his decision to stay in New England after college. He flew them out for a long weekend last November and took them to a USC game because one of Coach’s “boys” is a kicker on the team. Bitty tried to tamp down the small flame of bitterness that ignited in his chest at the knowledge his father will travel across the country to see one of his former players when it took him nearly four years to make it out to one of his own son’s hockey games.

At first, California seemed like a dream. Those first months were just about getting his bearings, settling into the new job. A year in, he looked around, realized the Sift account he’d come out here to work on was thriving, and decided to start working on himself.

Bitty still works more than he ever could have imagined working when he was in college and struggling to write his thesis, but one perk of being a creative director with a staff beneath him is that he can finally outsource some of that work. Three afternoons a week he leaves at five to meet with Ian, the personal trainer his fancy new gym set him up with. Everyone tells him he looks great. Which is great because the men Bitty meets in LA are all aspiring actors or models, with the occasional personal trainer thrown in for variety. In other words, people who are invested in their image. And Bitty’s no slouch in the looks department, but he can’t compete with their model-perfect looks and ripped physiques.

Even Jack, professional athlete and son of an actual model, seems dowdy compared to the guys he meets in LA. Of course, Jack wears track pants and running shoes to most places, jeans and a flannel if he needs to “dress up a little.”

That’s the trade-off: The men Bitty meets here in LA are beautiful, but there’s not a whole lot going on inside. Lardo says he needs to stop looking for long-term relationships in clubs, but she doesn’t understand LA. Where else is he supposed to meet people?

Okay, there was Matt, an Illinois transplant who worked in the legal department at one of the studios. They met in line at a live podcast taping and dated for almost a year. But genuine, salt-of-the-earth guys like Matt are few and far between. It’s fine. Sure, Bitty thinks about quitting all the time, getting an easy job that's just enough to pay his bills in a place where he can settle down with a nice guy in a house with a yard and a dog. Bitty might like a dog, someday. Or maybe he only wants a dog because he can’t have one, per his lease. There’s something about being told you can’t have something that just makes you want it more.

Bitty channels his depression into his oranges. He juices oranges until his arms burn and he’s sticky from wrist to elbow. The hollowed-out halves get turned into candied orange peels or are zested and used to make citrus-infused salt and sugar blends. He makes orange chicken, puts orange segments in salads, bakes orange cakes. There are a lot of orange cakes because, as it turns out, most orange cakes really only require one or two oranges.

It still isn’t enough to make a dent in his stock, which sits in his kitchen in paper bags. If he doesn’t work quickly enough they turn soft and moldy, so he spends most of his free time in the kitchen turning oranges into cakes and marmalades (version 2.0 will be ready to ship to his friends and family soon) and juice.

In the pictures he posts on Instagram, everything is perfect. All his followers see is Bitty and his oranges, everything extra bright thanks to a golden filter he slaps over everything. Everything is perfect in California, except for Bitty. Bitty is miserable, but at least he won’t die of scurvy.

*

Bitty’s at a club, dancing with a tall, broad-shouldered guy who bears only a passing resemblance to Jack Zimmermann (it’s the dark hair and cheekbones, mostly) and ignoring the text messages blowing up his phone. Two years ago he took over all of the agency’s food and beverage accounts. Shitty calls him Don Draper. At least Don Draper had the benefit of doing this job in an era before iPhones and Slack. Bitty’s constantly fielding questions from all directions: bosses and clients who want answers immediately, direct reports who need further instructions before they can proceed with the most basic of tasks. Bitty fantasizes about throwing his phone from the 101 overpass, an act his 20-year-old self would have deemed ludicrous.

Trey — Bitty thinks that’s his name — is wearing a slick, clingy black shirt with mesh sleeves and as he grinds Bitty from behind, all Bitty can think about is how that shirt is cold and stiff, so unlike the well-worn flannel shirts Jack favors. Trey keeps leaning in close and breathing his hot breath on Bitty’s neck. Bitty thinks Trey thinks it’s supposed to be sexy, but all he feels is revulsion. When the song ends, Bitty gratefully excuses himself and heads toward the bar, batting Trey’s hand away.

He needs water, and maybe something to eat because he just realized he worked straight through lunch and dinner, then headed straight over here and did a couple shots before hitting the dance floor.

 _Jack would be so disappointed in me_ , Bitty thinks as he orders a plate of raw veggies. Picturing Jack’s scowl and his edict to eat more protein, he adds a side of hummus to his order.

Maybe Jack can sense Bitty’s been thinking about him, because Bitty is still at the bar, lingering over his hummus and replying to the most urgent messages, when a new message from Jack comes in.

_What are you doing for Christmas?_

Working. Well, not on Christmas. But working Christmas Eve and the day after the holiday because even though most everyone in advertising takes the week between Christmas and New Year’s off, Bitty has a client presentation on January 2.

_Sadly, I am stuck here for the holidays. Work is insane._

_Want to spend it with me? We play the Kings on the 27 th. I can fly in early_.

Jack does this sometimes, when he plays in California and his schedule allows. Things don’t always line up quite so nicely; sometimes he leaves tickets for Bitty and then Bitty has to work late and it takes so long to get anywhere in LA traffic he just ends up at a sports bar somewhere to watch the end of Jack’s game. But sometimes, when the stars align correctly, Bitty gets to see Jack play in person and grab dinner with him afterwards. Sometimes they even get a whole Saturday or Sunday together, and Bitty’s long since stopped questioning why he looks forward to these short visits more than he looks forward to actual dates.

_Yes!_ _Of course. You still have my key, right? If you get in before I get home you can just Uber on over and let yourself in._

_I need to start planning a menu for Christmas brunch!_

_Ha ha. I’ll be in Arizona the day before Christmas Eve so I can fly in whenever? Don’t kill yourself cooking for me, though. We can keep it low key._

_Have you met me? I’m incapable of keeping it low key, you silly man._

_Are you still working 12 hour days?_

_You just worry about yourself, and let me worry about Christmas._

Bitty knows he’s deflecting but Christmas with Jack is the first thing he’s looked forward to since, well, since last summer when Jack spent two weeks with him before he had to be back for training camp.

Five years ago, Bitty worried he might never spend another Christmas (or another anything) with Jack again. After the way he ran out on Jack at Shitty and Lardo’s wedding when they’d come so close to finally acknowledging their feelings for each other — and after Jack kissed him — he wouldn’t have blamed Jack if he’d never wanted to speak to him again.

Putting some distance between them and whatever they almost started that night had been a relief, even if Bitty knew it looked like he was running away. But he and Jack are good now, or as good as they can be. They’ve found their footing with each other again. Things are different, with Bitty in California and Jack in Dallas now. They still talk every day or so, even if it's just a quick text with little substance like the one Bitty sent last week: “Good luck in Vegas tomorrow! Give ‘em hell!” Or, recently, a selfie of Jack in the grocery store holding a bag of Sift cake flour.

They’ve never talked about that night.

They still haven’t really talked about Allison or Jack’s impending retirement either, and Bitty wonders if Jack making Christmas plans with him is really his way of moving on.

*

Bitty’s seen Jack on TV, of course. He gets a selfie every other week or so, taken in front of an arena or landmark in another city. But seeing the subtle changes in Jack’s appearance through a screen still doesn’t prepare him for …

“Your beard!” Bitty lets his messenger bag fall at his feet in the doorway and he launches himself at Jack, lifting his hands to his face to feel what amounts to more than just a little stubble.

“Ha ha. Thought you would approve.” Jack covers Bitty’s hands with his own and holds them there for a few seconds as Bitty runs his hands up and down his cheeks.

“It’s very rugged. It suits you.”

California may be full of toned men with perpetual tans, but none of them can hold a candle to one Jack Laurent Zimmermann, with or without a beard: beautiful, sweet, awkward, and so comfortable Bitty might just melt. Even in his worn flannel and jeans from at least two seasons ago, he’s still the most handsome man Bitty’s ever laid eyes on.

Why on earth did Bitty try to convince himself he could ever be happy with anybody else when the man of his dreams is right here?

Jack chuckles. “Merry Christmas, Bittle.”

“Merry Christmas,” Bitty returns as he steps back and looks around his small kitchen. Jack texted him when he arrived and said he would start dinner. A quick glance at the oven timer tells him Jack managed to find something. Bitty would put money on it being the bag of chicken tenders he bought in preparation for this visit instead of the turkey pot pies he made and froze after Thanksgiving. But there’s also a pan of something green and garlicky sautéing on the stove, the kale Bitty bought at the farmer’s market last weekend, so Christmas Eve dinner won’t be entirely comprised of convenience foods. “Thanks for starting dinner. You better save room for dessert, though. This orange spice cake isn’t going to eat itself,” he says, indicating the cake displayed on the counter.

“That’s what that is? I figured it had something to do with oranges.”

“Apparently it’s a British holiday tradition. I call it my ‘use up all the oranges before they rot’ tradition.”

“Is it good?” Jack asks, stepping closer to examine the intricate powered sugar pattern on top.

Bitty just raises an eyebrow. He’s made some questionable things, some real experimental flops, but Jack’s never turned anything down. “Would you believe,” he says, “that you only use one orange for that darn cake? At this rate it will be months before I use all of these.”

“Juice,” Jack says.

Bitty raises an eyebrow. “You? Whatever happened to ‘juice is just sugar and empty calories.’”

Jack shrugs. “Allison liked it. Used to buy the big bottle at Costco. I got used to it.”

Allison is a name Bitty has avoided bringing up since Jack announced their breakup three months ago. He’s been waiting for Jack to mention it first. Bitty hadn’t been surprised when Jack and Allison started dating after he moved to California — he was the one who set them up! — but it had still stung, just a bit, when it happened. By the time they got engaged, he’d made his peace with his conflicted feelings. Yes, he loved — _loves_ — Jack. Theirs is still the most important relationship in Bitty’s life. He confides in Jack more than his own mama, more than Shitty and Lardo, more than any man he’s been with for however long since that night.

Sometimes Bitty allows himself to wonder what his life would be like now if he’d just given in to his feelings and let Jack take him home that night. Maybe they would still be here just like this, Jack with him for the NHL holiday break in a home they made together instead of this tiny condo. But things might have just as easily gone the other way, their romance a casualty of a bi-coastal relationship and two demanding careers. The years have taught Bitty that exes don’t always make the best friends. He doesn’t even talk to Luke anymore, and their breakup was pretty amicable. Christmas cards exchanged every year are their only contact.

Jack could never be just a Christmas card friend.

“Allison is … in Dallas for Christmas?” Bitty tentatively asks, switching on the oven light and peering inside. He was right: chicken nuggets, and what appears to be an entire bag of tater tots.

“In Minnesota with her family. She’s in the process of moving back there. We put the house on the market last week. Our realtor says we might not see much action until spring, but neither of us wanted to be in it over the holidays.”

“I guess that makes sense. Must be hard to be alone in such a big house.”

“Too big. We bought it thinking … Or, _I_ was thinking …” Jack doesn’t finish his thought, but Bitty can guess where it would have gone. He spent a couple days in Dallas with Jack and Allison before heading back to Georgia last Christmas. The house they bought when Jack got traded three years ago is practically a palace by LA standards; Bitty’s entire condo would fit in its living room. At the time, he’d admired its big backyard, the big kitchen that flowed into the living area, and all of the extra bedrooms. He’d thought, with a pang of jealousy he couldn’t quite stifle, that it seemed like the perfect place to raise a family.

“Are you staying somewhere else, then?” Bitty asks.

“I have an apartment. It’s close to the arena.”

“Oh.” Bitty doesn’t know why he’s the one who feels like crying. He focuses on pulling two plates from the cabinet to avoid looking at Jack.

“Can I have one?” When Bitty looks up, Jack is already peeling an orange.

“Of course. I have more than I’ll ever eat. Hope you like mimosas because those are on the menu for Christmas brunch. And you’ll have to take a few jars of marmalade back with you.”

“Bits, I’m not gonna have room for all that,” Jack chuckles. 

“Well, I’ll drop by the arena with a box. For the boys.” Bitty stops, realizing his mistake. Jack’s new team doesn’t quite get the jam thing, or appreciate it as much as the Falcs did in those early years. It’s unlikely any of them even know who Bitty is. It’s not like he’s recognized as the first gay NCAA hockey captain anymore, or the guy who’s friends with half of the Providence Falconers. To most of Jack’s teammates he’s just some random guy Jack knows from college, if that.

“Sorry,” Bitty apologizes. “I forgot for a sec.”

“It’s okay.” The orange peel, one long unbroken spiral, dangles from Jack's thumb and forefinger like a yo-yo.

Bitty’s kitchen is much smaller than Jack’s Dallas kitchen or the old Providence kitchen, and they haven’t had to maneuver around each other like this since their SMH days. Back then, the proximity fueled Bitty’s fantasies about what might happen between them if they got too close. Now it just makes Bitty feel self-conscious and uncomfortable, with no place to retreat to when he accidentally steps too close to an emotional minefield.

“Oh, hey,” Jack says lightly, “I can’t believe you still have these.” He pulls one of Bitty’s happy face spatulas from a crock near the stove. They look horribly out of place among the rest of Bitty’s color coordinated kitchen utensils, but Bitty can't bring himself to get rid of them.

“‘Course I do,” Bitty says, grateful for a change of subject. “They’re my favorite.”

Jack smiles softly, like that pleases him.

“Are you ready to eat?” Bitty asks. “Because I haven’t eaten all day, and I don’t even care that none of this is Christmas food, or that all of it is on my trainer’s forbidden foods list. It’s Christmas Eve. We need to get a move on so we can decorate the tree and watch _It’s a Wonderful Life_. I made eggnog! It’s a new recipe one of our clients was promoting on their website, I want you to tell me what you think …”

Jack just pulls on a pair of oven gloves and pulls the trays out, lets Bitty talk while he divides the pan of kale in half and shovels chicken nuggets and tater tots onto two plates.

Bitty kind of hates California, but there’s no place he’d rather be right now.

*

Bitty’s tree isn’t much to speak of, just a small potted thing that fits on his coffee table, but he has a box of ornaments Mama saved from his childhood and a little string of lights. He picked it up from the farmers market last week but has held off on decorating because it just seemed sad to decorate it alone.

“These the ornaments?” Jack lifts the lid of the old skate box Bitty stores his ornaments in. “Oh, this one’s cute.”

Bitty smiles. The ornament hanging from Jack’s index finger is a cradle with a little brown bunny asleep inside. Printed on the side of the cradle is “Grandson’s First Christmas, 1995.”

“That one was from MooMaw,” Bitty says as Jack gently places it on a branch. “Most of these are. She still sends one every year.” He lifts a figure of a little blond boy wearing winter clothes and ice skates out of the box. A small “2003” is handwritten in gold pen on his back. “This one is from my first year skating.”

“What’s this?” Jack holds up a Victorian-style clown and grimaces.

Bitty returns the grimace. “Aunt Judy dated an artist for a little while,” he says, swiftly taking it from Jack and placing it facedown in the box. “We don’t have to put that one up. Oh, here’s the one Lardo and I made.”

The salt dough gingerbread men were an idea born in the middle of the night, under the influence of a very potent batch of tub juice. The idea had been sound, even if its execution had been less than perfect. Perfect is overrated anyway, Bitty thinks as he gently peels away the bubble wrap he packed it in to reveal a gingerbread man wearing a Samwell jersey that’s been painted on with all the precision of a kindergartener. “Ha ha. I like it. I think you should put him right there where everyone can see it.”

“‘Everyone’ being you and me?” Bitty teases, but he puts the ornament on the branch Jack’s pointing at and pulls out his camera to take a picture. He’ll post it on Instagram later, write some silly caption and tag Lardo so she sees it.

“I think it looks nice,” Jack declares when all the ornaments have been hung. Everything does feel more festive now that the little tree has been put up, a little more homey in the warm glow of the tree’s lights.

After the tree has been decorated, Jack excuses himself to make a phone call. He says it will take a minute, but Bitty has changed out of his work clothes into something more comfy and poured two glasses of eggnog and Jack is still in Bitty’s bedroom with the door closed.

When Jack returns he looks frustrated and exhausted. He exhales gustily as he slumps next to Bitty on the couch.

“You wanna talk about it?” Bitty asks. “Or do you need a drink first?” He hands Jack a glass topped with whipped cream and nutmeg.

“Eggnog?”

“Protein shake.” Bitty winks, and is rewarded with the thinnest of smiles.

“Sorry about … that,” Jack says, glancing at the phone he’s set on the coffee table. “She texted earlier that she wants Milo. She didn’t even want a dog. I walk him. I pick up his shit. I take him to the vet and order his food. But she thinks it will be too hard on him to stay with me since I’m gone so much. Like I’m not going to be home all the time after this season.”

And there it is, the first allusion to the ‘R’ word this evening. Bitty holds his breath, wondering if he’ll get anything else.

It’s been two months since Jack made his retirement announcement, and all he’s said to Bitty — or any of their friends — is some annoyingly vague version of his media spiel: “It’s been a good time, but I’m ready to go. I’m fortunate to have made it 15 years. I’ll always be grateful to the league for giving me this opportunity, to my fans for supporting me all these years, and to the Providence Falconers and Dallas Stars for allowing me to represent them.”

“You ready to talk about it yet?”

“I didn’t want to get traded again,” Jack says, and it dawns on Bitty that Jack isn’t upset about retiring; he’s upset about the trade that took him to Dallas and prevented him from finishing his career with his team.

At the time, Jack had spun it as an opportunity because that was what he was supposed to do: “It’s a young team,” he’d told Bitty. “They need an old timer like me to keep them in line. Besides, Allison doesn’t really like the Northeast. We’ve always said we’d give another part of the country a try if it ever came up.”

“And you … thought they might trade you again?” Bitty asks now.

“I’m old. My name doesn’t sell tickets anymore. I’ve missed parts of the last two seasons due to injuries and surgeries. I have another one on the books. From management’s perspective, it’s not a tough choice. My agent has been hinting for a while now that retirement might not be the worst thing.”

Bitty doesn’t say what he’s thinking, which is that Jack has the maturity and leadership skills to boost a floundering team even if he’s no longer making the plays he used to be able to make in his sleep. He suspects other people have already tried that line of reasoning. So he just lets Jack go boneless against him until he’s ready to talk.

Bitty has finished his eggnog and is in the middle of dreaming up an almond milk version — Ian the trainer is really pushing the no dairy thing — before Jack speaks again. “I’d do another year if I could go back to Providence for it. But that’s not in the cards right now. And the thought of uprooting my life for a few years at the most, of having to schmooze new owners and season ticket holders and make nice with a whole new set of reporters, just makes me feel tired. I just got a handle on all of it in Dallas.”

“I think it’s brave,” Bitty says. “Nobody would fault you for staying in another year.”

“I used to measure my success by what my father had done by my age,” Jack confesses.

“You are not your father.” Bitty’s voice is firm and brooks no room for argument. “I think you proved that a long time ago.”

Jack exhales, a bitter little “huh” that escapes from somewhere deep in his chest. “You’re right. If I were my father, I’d have a few more Stanley Cup rings. A model wife and a kid to take over the family business.”

Something in Jack’s tone when he says “kid” reveals to Bitty the other source of Jack’s unhappiness. “Is that what you and Allison fought about?”

Jack sighs. “You know how things are good, really good, in the beginning of a relationship? You meet each other’s families, take a couple vacations together, eventually you’re talking about next steps?”

Bitty nods. There haven’t been many, but there have been a few, men in his life who have fit that description.

“We were at a cabin in Minnesota with her family over the summer. Her sisters and brother all have little kids. It was kind of chaotic, but the kids were really cute. We were lying in bed that first night, listening to her youngest sister’s baby cry, and Allison said she never wants to do that. She was so ... adamant. I said it didn’t seem so bad. And then she said she never saw us having kids. We’d never talked about it before.”

“You want kids?” Bitty realizes he and Jack haven’t talked about it either.

“I might. That’s what I told her. I might not, but I’m not ready to close that door. So we broke up.”

“Oh, Jack.”

“Not right there. We stuck it out for another month or so. But it clearly wasn’t something either of us was going to change our mind about. And I just thought, why prolong something that’s never going to last?”

“Kind of like me and Luke,” Bitty murmurs, remembering that long ago breakup.

“Well, yeah,” Jack says. “I know I’m getting kind of old to be a dad. And it’s not something I’d even want right away. My dad told me I shouldn’t make any big decisions in the first year after I retire.”

“Your dad is a smart man.”

“I used to be so annoyed by everything he did. Somehow, even the most benign praise came out sounding like criticism. But now I think I got pretty lucky.”

“Now that I'm older, I think I understand my parents were just doing the best they could,” Bitty agrees. He and his parents don't always see eye to eye — mostly because they, like Jack and Bitty's other friends — think he works too much and doesn't come home often enough, but he knows they're proud of him. Mama even follows most of his accounts on social media and lectures her friends when she finds competitors’ brands in their cupboards.

“Bits, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know who I am without hockey.” Jack’s voice cracks, and Bitty isn’t sure if he’s ever seen Jack this devastated.

“Well, first you’re going to get that knee surgery and do some rehab,” Bitty says, gently patting Jack’s bad knee. “And then we’ll figure the rest out. You can coach, or go back to school, or start an anonymous salty hockey blog and make everyone wonder who’s behind it.”

“Ha ha.”

“You might be doing something new, you might not be involved with hockey at all, but that’s never gonna change who you are. You’re the same person you’ve always been. You’re kind, and generous, and funnier than most people give you credit for. Nothing about you has changed except maybe more gray hair.”

“Way to kick me while I’m down.”

“Don’t worry, you still have the best ass the NHL has ever seen.”

Jack snorts.

“You’re the best man I know, Jack, and I am so in love with you.”

The confession slips out easily. There was a time when such a reckless slip-up would be humiliating, but it’s too late to take it back and Bitty doesn’t really want to. There’s too much history between them, too many missed opportunities and “almosts” to pretend it’s not true.

Jack doesn’t pull away. That’s something. He pulls Bitty close, tucks him under his arm, and presses his lips to the top of his head. The gesture feels, paradoxically, like acceptance and rejection. “I don’t think we should do this now,” Jack says carefully. “Not like this. Not when neither of us is happy.”

Bitty feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him. He hasn’t said anything at all about how unhappy he’s been recently, but of course Jack’s figured it out.

“You make me happy,” Bitty whispers.

“Your job is eating you alive. I just ended a five-year relationship. I’m retiring in a few months. I’m going to be hell to live with.”

“I’ve known you a long time, Jack Zimmermann. I think I can handle all of your mood swings.” It’s the closest thing to a chirp Bitty can manage as he’s trying not to cry. “But I get it. No big decisions in the first year and all.”

“Jesus, Bits. If I thought it would make either of us feel better, I could carry you into the bedroom and we could fuck right now. It would feel good. Is that how you want to start this?”

Part of Bitty wants to scream _yes_! Whatever this is, it isn’t the beginning. They’re already in the middle of something they’ve been building toward for years.

“When it happens, I want it to be for the right reasons,” Jack says more firmly. “Not this way. We both deserve better.”

It would be easy to take Jack’s words as a rejection, but he’s so damn earnest. And he didn’t say “if.” He said “when.” Bitty won’t let this ruin Christmas. He planned to spend the holiday with his best friend, and that’s what he’s going to do.

Their empty glasses sit side by side next to the Christmas tree. Maybe if they’d made different choices, there’d be a plate with cookies for Santa and a carrot for his reindeer instead. Instead of clinging to each other on Bitty's cheap Ikea couch they'd be whispering and giggling together as they wrap presents, anticipating the surprise and delight on their kids' faces when they're discovered in the morning. Maybe they’ll still have that life. But not here. Not in California.


	5. 2033

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the last chapter! Astute readers will notice only four years have passed between this and the last chapter; this is what happens when the fic I write looks nothing like the fic I outlined. This is the last official chapter, but I’ll be posting a short epilogue within the next few days.

The Knight-Duans still host their annual Solistice party, but Christmas morning is a family affair. More than two decades of friendship and the title of “godfather” to Shitty and Lardo’s twin daughters has made Jack more family than friend, and now that he’s back in town there’s no place he’d rather be for the holiday.

There were a lot of questions about his future in the aftermath of his retirement, but one thing Jack never questioned was that he would return to Providence. He stayed in Dallas through the end of his last season and sold the house shortly thereafter. It was purchased by a young starry-eyed couple who were more impressed by the outdoor kitchen and family-friendly floor plan than the fact that it had once been the home of a NHL star.

Now Jack lives in his old condo, the one he bought as a newly-signed rookie. His parents, always big on investments, encouraged him to keep it when he was traded to Dallas. Now he’s glad he did. He never had a lot of time for home improvement projects when he lived there, but since returning from an extended visit with his parents six months ago he’s been giving all of the rooms a new coat of paint and replacing the aging appliances and fixtures. Maybe he’ll find a bigger place, an actual house with a yard so he can have a dog and a garden, but for now it’s home.

It’s still a little strange to think of Shitty and Lardo as parents. There’s something about having known them way back when, when they were still kids themselves, that makes the fact of their children seem especially remarkable. Neither Shitty nor Lardo had ever been particularly enthusiastic about having kids, but then one afternoon — much like they’d announced their wedding — Shitty had casually mentioned to Jack that they were “trying.” Within the year, Jack was visiting a crying Shitty and a tired-but-radiant Lardo in the hospital to meet their daughters, Ruth and Rosa.

“Uncle Jack!” He barely has time to brace himself before Ruth has launched herself at him. He squats and catches her in one arm, leaving the other free for Rosa, right on her sister’s heels.

“Daddy said you’ll read this book to us,” Ruth says, handing him a picture book full of mini-biographies about inspirational women that Jack gave them on their last birthday.

“Oh, he did, eh?” Jack carefully gets to his feet, a twin still clinging to each arm, and walks them all over to the couch. He sits with an exaggerated bounce, eliciting giggles from the girls.

“Read my story first,” Rosa says, riffling through the book’s pages as they settle themselves on Jack’s lap.

“No, mine!” Ruth squeals, yanking the book from her sister’s hand and beginning her own search.

“How about we read about Frida Kahlo instead?” he asks diplomatically, hoping to avoid an argument or accusations of favoritism. 

“Okay.” Ruth nods decisively. “That’s the one Mommy likes.”

“Rosie?” Jack asks. “That okay with you?”

“Fine,” she pouts. “But then can we read _my_ story?”

“I think you have time for just one story before Uncle Bitty gets here.” Lardo peers out from the kitchen, carton of orange juice in one hand and bottle of champagne in the other. “Maybe you can read more after presents and breakfast.”

“Oh, right! Uncle Bitty’s coming. I forgot he lives here now.”

Lardo catches Jack’s eye and holds his gaze. 

“He doesn’t live _here_. He lives with Uncle Jack.”

“I’m gonna go get my colors and make him a picture for Christmas!” Rosa slides off of Jack’s lap and dashes down the hallway.

“Ruthie?” Jack asks. “Do you want to draw with your sister, or read the story with me?”

“I still want to read with you.” Ruth sighs contentedly and rests her head on Jack’s chest. He opens the well-worn book and begins to read aloud. 

“Can we read another?” she asks when Jack finishes. Ruth would be happy to read with Jack all day, and in fact they’ve spent many afternoons just like this.

“I think Uncle Bitty is going to be back soon,” Jack tells her. “Let’s wait until later.” He and Bitty drove over together this morning, but were prevented from entering the house by a distraught Shitty, who forgot to buy batteries for one of the girls’ Christmas presents. Bitty volunteered to run out to the store, claiming he needed to get nutmeg for the eggnog anyway.

“Why don’t you and Uncle Bitty get married?” Ruth asks, uncharacteristically blunt. Rosa, who takes after their father, is the more extroverted twin. 

“Why do you think I should marry Uncle Bitty?” Jack asks, curious. 

“Well, you’re both my uncles. And you’re best friends. And you live together,” Ruth replies with all the logic of a small child. “Mommy and Daddy are best friends and live together with us. You and Uncle Bitty should get married and get some kids.”

Jack chuckles. “It doesn’t always work like that, Ruthie. Your mom and dad love each other.” 

“But you love Uncle Bitty!” Ruth protests. “You always come over here together to babysit us and sit together on the couch when we watch movies.”

Part of Jack is amused by Ruth’s four-year-old interpretation of love. Part of him is terrified that she, like her mother, can see right through him.

For the past few years, Jack’s relationship with Bitty has been in a weird holding pattern. The timing of Bitty’s confession that he was in love with Jack had been … really bad. Jack had just ended his five-year relationship with Allison which, coupled with his decision to retire, had put him in a bad place, mentally. Bitty, for his part, was overworked and miserable in LA. Part of Jack believed Bitty when he’d told him he was in love with him, but the worst, most insecure part of him wondered if Bitty had said those things to make him feel better. 

By a year into his retirement they both had clearer heads but the past two years have seen no shortage of obstacles in their way. First, Bitty was dispatched to London for nine months to help open his company’s newest office. Toward the end of that stint, Jack’s father fell off the roof while cleaning the gutters, breaking a leg and fracturing some ribs. Jack went to Montreal to help out during his recovery, a period that stretched into half a year when he was asked to assist with a coachless Mites team at his parents’ neighborhood rink. He stayed on through the season, grateful for the time with his parents and the opportunity to mull over his post-retirement options. 

Bitty returned to LA and threw himself into work with a new client, Jack returned to Providence and threw himself into home improvement projects. They talked every night and made plans. If they were going to try to be together as something more than friends — _really_ try — they had to be in the same place.

Jack was willing to move to LA. Jack liked Providence and had always resented his move to Dallas, but moving for love was different than moving for work and Jack was willing to do anything to make things work with Bitty. He’d had a plan to fly out for the holidays and, if all went well, they would celebrate the new year and the beginning of their relationship with a week at a resort on a secluded Maldivian island. After that, who knew? Maybe they’d spend the new year looking for a bigger place and moving his things out there.

What actually happened was that Bitty called Jack, in tears, at the beginning of November to tell him he’d been laid off. His company had been purchased by a larger player in the industry and his job made redundant. Instead of the Maldives, instead of packing up his own things, Jack flew out to LA and spent a week helping Bitty pack. They drove the U-Haul back to Providence together.

A small part of Jack hoped to move Bitty right into his bedroom, but the more reasonable part — the same part that insisted to Bitty he needed to take a year to figure out life after retirement — doesn’t want to rush Bitty into anything while he’s still getting his bearings. So he hasn’t pushed, and Bitty hasn’t pushed, and the closest they ever get is, as Ruth astutely noted, cuddling on the couch when they watch TV together.

“Daddy says you don’t have to get married just because you’re in love,” Rosa pipes up from the floor, where she’s bent over her sketchpad, pencils spread out all around her. 

“But then they wouldn’t get to have a wedding,” Ruth says. “I’ve never been to a wedding. Hannah J. got to be a flower girl in her aunt and uncle’s wedding. I want to be a flower girl.”

Rosa lets her colored pencil fall to the floor. “Can I be a flower girl too?” she gasps.

“Girls.” Lardo comes into the living room. “Nobody is getting married.” To Jack she says, “Sorry about that, man. They watched some princess movies at a playdate last week and now they’re obsessed with weddings.”

“Princess movies?” Jack raises an eyebrow. “I’m sure Shitty had a few things to say about that.”

“None of which can be repeated in present company,” Lardo confirms.

“Presents?” Ruth asks hopefully. “Is it time to open presents?”

“Not yet, Baby Ruth.” Shitty strides in, still wearing the boxers and t-shirt he slept in, and scoops Ruth out of Jack’s lap. “We have to wait for Uncle Bitty to get back. And I think —” he shoots a sly wink Jack’s way “—we have to wait for Santa, too.”

That’s Jack’s cue. He slowly gets to his feet, mindful of his knee that always aches a little when he first stands after he’s been sitting for too long. 

“I’ll go outside and help Uncle Bitty,” he says for the girls’ benefit. While Shitty and Lardo admire Rosa’s drawing, Jack quietly slips out and lets himself into Lardo’s studio, where he changes into the Santa costume Shitty found in the Haus basement one year and inexplicably kept. Somehow, he convinced Jack to wear it for the girls’ first Christmas and it’s become tradition. The velveteen jacket and pants are threadbare in places and the costume’s padding sags like a cheap pillow that’s been washed one too many times. The hat is a different shade of red altogether. Shitty is more delighted by it than his children are.

Jack’s just coming around to the front of the house when Bitty pulls up. He’s smiling and laughing silently to himself as he gets out of the car. 

“What?” Jack holds his arms out to his sides and turns in a slow circle. “You don’t like the suit?”

“Oh, the suit is great,” Bitty says with a smirk. “Just never thought I’d see you in one.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a small box. “Have some candy canes, Santa.”

Jack catches it easily. “I thought the same, but it’s amazing what I’ll do for Shitty and Lardo’s kids.”

“Ain’t that the truth. I still can’t believe I gave up a Saturday afternoon to help Shitty put that dollhouse together.”

“All things considered, I think I got the better deal.” 

“You did,” Bitty agrees. “Three hours of Shitty ranting about holidays manufactured to support ‘crapitalism’ really takes the magic out of the season.”

Jack smirks. For the first two years of the twins’ lives, Shitty had called an outright ban on corporate Christmas and mass produced toys. Then they started preschool and Hot Wheels and American Girl stormed the gates of Shitty’s wooden toy utopia within a week.

“You get the batteries?” 

Bitty lifts his bag in acknowledgement. “Last pack in the store. Let’s hope this dollhouse doesn’t require more than four.”

“Let’s hope next year Shitty remembers to think about batteries more than ten minutes before presents.”

“Or that.” Jack slings an arm around Bitty’s shoulder and they approach the porch together. “Hey, Sweetpeas!” Bitty calls as he opens the door. “Look who I found outside!”

“Uncle Bitty!”

“Santa!”

Bitty manages the furtive battery-handoff with Shitty as he greets the girls with hugs, then walks them over to Jack. Jack’s heart squeezes a little at the sight of Bitty with the twins, as it always does. They don’t really remember him from his visits when they were younger, but in the short time he’s been back they’ve become fast friends. Last weekend he had them over for a baking day. Jack tried to stay out of their way, but couldn’t help but admire the patient way Bitty taught them to measure ingredients and whisk eggs.

Bitty would be a good dad. 

When the girls have finished greeting Bitty, they turn to Jack. He crouches so he’s at their eye level and hands each a candy cane.

Ruth cautiously approaches him, stopping when they’re eye to eye. “Hi, Uncle Jack,” she whispers.

“Ho ho ho,” Jack tries. He didn’t think the girls would fall for it this year. It’s a little disappointing.

Rosa experimentally tugs on the ratty fake beard. “Can I wear this?” 

“Well, we tried, folks,” Lardo says as she hastily snaps a picture of Shitty on Jack’s lap. “Might as well get out of that suit. You look like you’re about to rob a bank.”

When Jack returns dressed in his regular clothes, Ruth is wearing his Santa hat and Rosa looks like a mini Rip Van Winkle in the Santa beard that hangs halfway to her knees. They remain so dressed as they unwrap their gifts. They’re excited about Jack’s gift to them — he’s paid for three-month’s worth of ice time so he can give them “hockey lessons” once a week — but are over the moon thrilled with their presents from Bitty.

“What is it?” Rosa asks, pulling out a black and yellow backpack that looks like a happy honey bee.

“It’s a backpack so you can carry your art supplies,” Bitty explains. “Or whatever else you want to take with you.” 

Rosa immediately drops everything to fill her bag with her nearest treasures: her sketchbook and colored pencils, a stegosaurus figure, and a glittery ribbon and scrap of snowman wrapping paper she finds on the floor.

Ruth is just as delighted with the kitty cat tote bag Bitty’s given her so she can carry her library books. The obvious care Bitty has taken in choosing unique gifts with each girl’s personality in mind is on the (very long) list of things Jack loves about Eric R. Bittle. 

There are gifts for the adults, too. Jack has made it clear over the years that he doesn’t want or need anything, but that hasn’t stopped the Duan-Knights from spoiling him in their own big-hearted way. For the past several years, Lardo has gifted him an 8 x 8 abstract painting she’s made using one of his photographs as reference. This year’s painting is based on his first trip to the ice rink with the girls. Only the colors she’s chosen and the positions of the three main figures give it away, but Jack knows.

Bitty’s painting is instantly recognizable as well: Jack had captured him standing on the front porch of his California condo right after he locked the door for the last time. He’s looking off to the side, as though contemplating his next steps. Lardo’s version strips it down to its barest essence — the brown of the building, the blue of the sky, and gold strokes meant to represent Bitty.

“Y’all, it’s beautiful,” Bitty gushes. Jack wonders if it makes him feel bad to see it, to be reminded of a part of his life that ended less than happily, but when he took the original picture he’d been thinking of it as a beginning. 

Bitty’s gift to Jack is just as personal, a thoughtfully chosen compilation of the best sports writing from the year Jack was born. This window into early 1990s sports culture would be fascinating on its own, but it includes a profile of Jack’s father in the weeks leading up to and following Jack’s birth, a new father preparing for another Cup run in the latter half of his career. Jack isn’t sure he’s ever read this article. So much has been written about Bad Bob Zimmermann that this profile, probably a highlight of some sports reporter’s career, was likely just another story to him. 

Jack’s eyes linger on the first paragraph that posits the question: “What happens when the bad boy of hockey settles down and starts a family?” Forty-three years on, Jack is pretty sure the answer requires a lot more than 10,000 words.

This gift is meaningful for another reason, too. For the past year or so, Jack has been doing some writing. It’s not too far off from what Bitty jokingly floated as an “anonymous salty hockey blog,” although he writes under his own name for an established online sports outlet. Jack doesn’t think his writing is anything special, but a literary agent reached out to him a few months ago and asked him to consider putting a book proposal together. He’s thinking about it.

“Bits. This is amazing. Where did you find this?”

“I have my ways,” Bitty smugly replies. “Let’s just say I know you, Mister Zimmermann, and my trips to used book stores aren’t _just_ to look for old cookbooks.”

“I, uh, I didn’t forget your gift. It’s at home,” Jack rushes to assure him. He never canceled the trip to the Maldives; he still wants to take Bitty. As friends, lovers, whatever. It just feels like too private a gift to give here in front of everyone. 

Bitty pats Jack’s leg and leans into him. “I’m not worried. Something to look forward to later.”

The rest of Christmas day proceeds as usual at the Knight-Duan house, complete with wrapping paper fight and brunch, though this year they’ve traded Pillsbury cinnamon rolls and scrambled eggs for a full menu lovingly prepared by Bitty. It’s too much food that they take too long to eat, reminiscing about old times and looking ahead to new beginnings. 

Now that Jack has time to follow other sports, he’s gotten into woman’s basketball, of all things. Georgia Martin, his old AGM, is married to a former player. The three of them are part of a group trying to being a WNBA franchise to Providence. Jack updates Shitty and Lardo on the latest on that front, as well as his plans to begin coaching. More immediately, he’s helping some parents at a local high school reestablish its hockey teams, casualties of school budget cuts. They’ll have a reduced season this year, a single co-ed team, to gauge interest.

“What about you, Bits?” Shitty asks. “You have a plan yet?”

“I’ve been talking to a few people,” Bitty says as he cuts into a piece of breakfast sausage. “I’m meeting with somebody from a smaller creative agency after the holidays. And a few firms in New York got in touch as soon as they found out I was on the market.”

Jack very much does not want Bitty to go to New York, but he’s already decided he’ll go with him … _If_ Bitty ends up taking a job there, and if he asks Jack to come with him.

“You don’t have to get anything right away, do you?” Lardo asks. “You’ll be okay for a while?”

“The nice thing about being at the same place for my entire career is that I got a _very_ generous severance package,” Bitty says with a grin. “I’ll be okay for a little while.”

By the time they get up from the table, Ruth and Rosa are restless and begging to be entertained. He and Bitty play three rounds of Candy Land with them while Shitty and Lardo do the dishes.

“You think this game is better if you drink every time you draw a red?” Bitty whispers to Jack as the third game drags on.

“I’m sure Shitty could tell us,” Jack whispers back.

“Uncle Jack, it’s your turn.” Rosa nudges Jack, who draws a picture card that sends him back to a space near the start. For some reason the twins find this hilarious.

Bitty wins the game and, to Jack’s relief, suggests they watch a movie rather than play a fourth round. Ruth claims Jack’s lap, and Rosa Bitty’s, as Jack finds a movie he knows they have their parents’ approval to watch. At the sounds of the opening music, Shitty and Lardo join them in the living room, cuddled together in an oversize chair.

The food, the wine, the small child in his lap, the animated movie Jack can’t quite follow … they all have him fighting sleep. He tries to follow the quiet conversation the other adults are engaged in, but eventually he gives in to that heavy-eyelid feeling. It’s dark outside when he feels Shitty’s breath in his ear.

“Time to wake up, Sleeping Beauty,” Shitty coos, reminiscent of the way he’d wake Jack mornings after sleeping in Jack’s bed. 

“No,” Ruth pouts at the sound of her father’s voice. “I wanna stay here.”

“I do too,” Jack says.

“I do too,” Bitty says from the other side of the couch. Rosa is curled up against him, sketchbook clutched in one small hand.

“Well, if you’re offering to babysit, I’ll get my coat,” Lardo says. “Pretty sure there’s a Chinese restaurant open somewhere.”

“Ugh,” Bitty groans. “No more food.”

“You’re the one who made it,” Jack says.

“And I made too much, as usual! When are y’all gonna learn to stop me when I want to make three kinds of everything?”

“But it brings you so much joy,” Shitty says. “We like seeing you happy again.”

“That, and we’ll have leftovers for _days_ ,” Lardo adds. “It should be against the law to have to cook between Christmas and New Year’s.”

“Keep it all, then,” Bitty says. He gets up, careful not to disturb Rosa. “You ready to head home, Mr. Zimmermann?”

Rosa’s eyes fly open. “Stay here with us,” she pleads. “ _Please_?”

“Uncle Jack and I will be back on Friday for your skating lesson,” Bitty reminds her. “Remember, we’re getting pizza afterward while your parents go out?”

“Can we play wedding?” Ruth sleepily murmurs, and Jack can sense the direction this is heading so he makes the goodbyes quick, manhandling Shitty into a hug and kissing Lardo on the cheek before giving each girl a bear hug that ends with their super secret fist bump handshake. Bitty does his version of goodbyes, taking a little longer with Shitty. Jack pretends not to see them both glance his way, or the way Bitty nods at something he can’t hear Shitty say.

Something has shifted between this morning and now. The air outside feels crisp and invigorating with the promise of snow. Inside the car the atmosphere feels just as charged, though that could just be Jack’s nerves.

“Didn’t know Christmas day with kids could be that exhausting,” Bitty says. “No wonder Mama and Coach made me stay in bed ’til eight.”

“Ha ha.”

“Shitty and Lardo are doing such a great job with them. Not that I ever doubted it, just never saw it coming. Did you ever think they’d have kids?”

“Not really,” Jack admits. 

Bitty doesn’t answer that, just gazes out the window at the city lights as they leave Boston behind. There are few cars on the roads; they make it to Providence in record time.

“I always kind of thought it’d be us,” Bitty says with a sigh, picking up the dropped thread of conversation at a stoplight a mile from the condo. He’s still looking out the window, arms wrapped around himself like he can’t get warm despite the hot blast of the heater (thank god for dual-zone climate control) and seat warmers.

“Should’ve been us,” Jack says because he’s tired, so tired, of talking around it. He’s tired of things being hard with Bitty just because he won’t allow himself to believe something can be both easy and deserved.

“Why can’t it still?” Bitty asks. “Why are we still waiting?”

Why are they still waiting? Almost two decades have come and gone since Jack realized he was in love with Bitty. Two decades that have, all things considered, treated him well. But he’ll always regret putting parts of his life on hold, settling for less in his relationships with other people because he was too afraid, or too stupid, to pursue anything with Bitty. Now that they’re finally on the same page, it seems stupid to hold back.

“I kind of thought … Or, I really hoped,” Jack tries. “I always hoped that when we both got our shit together, it would happen for us.”

“Well, honey, things don’t just happen,” Bitty says. “And look how long it’s taken me to get my shit together.”

They’re in the parking garage below Jack’s condo now, in the spot reserved in Jack’s name since he signed his lease. Jack turns off the car but doesn’t move to get out.

“You know that doesn’t matter to me,” he says quickly. “Never has. I should have said something at the start. I didn’t have it together at all but at least we could have figured it out together.”

“When was that? The start of it for you?” Bitty asks, voice quavering. Shit. Jack didn’t mean to make Bitty cry. They’ve talked about this, and they’ve talked around it, for years, but he’s never told Bitty just how long it’s been going on for him.

“Euh … Do you remember that first Christmas after I graduated? I came by the Haus and we went shopping, and then I took you to Annie’s and gave you —”

“My spatulas! You gave me those spatulas, and a hat. I think I lost that hat to Luke when we broke up, by the way. Jack Zimmermann, are you telling me that could have been our first date?” Bitty sounds … amused? Definitely not angry. Still a little sad. Jack offers up a silent thanks to whatever deity he hasn’t pissed off today that Bitty is taking this so well.

“Not really. I didn’t even know until halfway through coffee that I wanted it to be? I just knew that I missed you, and that being with you made me happy. I hadn’t stopped to consider why being with you felt different than being with Shitty or Lardo.”

“Oh, sweetheart. You didn’t know it then, but I loved you too. At first I thought you were straight and told myself it was just an unrequited crush. When you came out I thought you were just plain not interested. There were times I thought maybe, but they were always so fleeting. And then you were with somebody else, or I was. I told myself it was enough that you’re my best friend, because you’ve stuck around through bad boyfriends and bad decisions. You’re the first person I call when I need to talk to somebody. You’re there for me when I really, really don’t deserve you. Like my 30th birthday.”

“Huh,” Jack huffs, because the memory is funny and not at all, though Bitty might argue otherwise, evidence that they shouldn’t be together. Yes, Bitty had gotten more than a little wasted at his 30thbirthday party. Jack had spent the next morning taking care of him and reassuring him that life doesn’t end at thirty. 

Six months later, he got the promotion that took him to California.

“I should have known then that I’d have to work a lot harder to get rid of you if you were willing to stick around for _that,_ ” Bitty says with a grimace, as though the mere memory is making him ill all over again.

“Bittle, I was in love with you. And I saw a lot worse in college.”

“Augh, you have! We have no secrets from each other. Doesn’t that scare you?”

“I think it’s kind of comforting. You know me. I’m not the best with new people.”

“So you’re settling for me because I’m easier than getting to know somebody new, is that it?” Bitty asks, but he’s using his chirping voice.

“No. I’m _choosing_ you because you’re my favorite person and we should have done this years ago.”

“So let’s do it,” Bitty says, and that’s that.

*

That feeling from inside the car lingers as they ride the elevator to Jack’s condo, and now he can name it: anticipation. By unspoken agreement, they manage to hold off on doing anything until they’re safely inside. Once the door shuts behind them, Bitty surprises Jack by backing him up and pinning him against it. “Kiss me.”

The last time Jack kissed Bitty on Christmas it was born of equal parts love and fear, a desperate plea asking him to stay. This time around there’s no less love, but that fear is replaced with certainty. This kiss is a promise. This time nobody is going anywhere without the other.

“I can’t believe we’re finally here,” Bitty breathes, rubbing a cool hand against Jack’s neatly maintained scruff. 

“I can’t believe we talked ourselves out of this for so long.”

“We’re idiots,” Bitty says matter-of-factly. “Me especially. I’ve spent so much time trying to prove myself, and for what? I ended up burnt out and unemployed, and I don’t have anything to show for it. Not a husband, or a family. I don’t even own a home. I don’t even have a goldfish! And I’m going to be forty!”

“In two years,” Jack gently reminds him. “And you have me. I own a home.”

“Oh, as if that solves everything,” Bitty says, but he’s smiling. 

“You realize you’re about to shackle yourself to an underemployed 43-year old. I’m not exactly a catch anymore, Bittle.”

“Psh. Who wants a hot twenty-something frat boy?” Bitty asks, shrugging like 25-year-old Jack isn’t exactly what used to do it for him.

“You used to.” They’ve been best friends forever, Jack can call him out on this. He knows Bitty’s type. 

“I’ve evolved. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not some twenty-something frat boy, either.”

“Thank god,” Jack laughs. “I couldn’t keep up with you even then.”

“Nobody says we have to go fast, honey.” Bitty’s so careful and deliberate with his words, eyes on Jack’s the entire time. One of his hands has settled lightly on Jack’s waist and the other hovers near Jack’s collar, as though asking permission. Without taking his eyes off Bitty’s, Jack nods, just barely.

“I think,” Bitty says as he begins working the buttons on Jack’s shirt, “that if we’d done this the first time we thought about it, it would have been over in five minutes. I like that we’re mature enough to appreciate the moment.”

“Mmhm,” Jack agrees, nuzzling into Bitty’s hair.

“Though if I’d known this was going to happen tonight, I might’ve joined a gym.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Jack scoffs. 

“You’re right. I am so done with all that Hollywood bullshit.”

“Thank god.” There’s a little piece of Jack that’s smug about getting to have this version of Bitty, who’s happy with who he is and gives zero fucks about how anybody else sees him. Jack thinks Bitty is perfect.

“It’s easier with you.”

Jack gets it. With anybody else he would be self-conscious, but it’s different with Bitty. It’s different _because_ it’s Bitty. Bitty knows every part of him, doesn’t mind the closet full of old flannels or that he still eats a peanut butter and jelly sandwich every afternoon out of habit. Doesn’t mind that his body is softer and slower now because he’s more likely to sleep in than get up at some unholy hour to run eight miles, or that he’s never, ever going to be as charismatic as either of his parents. He doesn’t mind the anxiety or his tendency toward moodiness when things don’t work out quite the way he wants them to. Bitty knows about Jack’s meds and his therapist and understands they’re just as much a part of the Jack Zimmermann package as the hockey legacy and celebrity parents. 

Falling into this with Bitty is just so easy.

“Oh!” Bitty gasps when he finally undoes the last button and helps Jack slide the shirt from his shoulders. “Hi.” Suddenly he’s pressing kisses to Jack’s chest, humming in approval as the little feather-light pecks get lower and lower until he’s reached the waistband of Jack’s jeans.

“Wait,” Jack says, grabbing Bitty’s wrist to stop him before he goes further. “You too. You don’t get to keep your clothes on for this.”

“Jeez, Mr. Zimmermann. So antsy,” Bitty mock complains.

“Bittle, I’ve been waiting to get in your pants for twenty years. I know you want to appreciate the moment, but we’ve got the rest of our lives to do that.”

Bitty lifts his head and Jack can see the tears — happy tears, he hopes — shining in his eyes. “We do, don’t we?”

“We absolutely do.” Jack removes Bitty’s sweater easily and gets to work helping him remove the button-down he’s wearing underneath. “Fucking layers,” he groans, because it’s been twenty years and this damn shirt is the last thing in their way.

While Jack works on Bitty’s shirt, Bitty tackles Jack’s jeans. Belt, button, zipper, all in quick order. “Get these off,” Bitty orders, tugging at the jeans.

“Careful, bud,” Jack breathes

“Oh right, your knee.”

“I meant because I’m all tangled up in your shirt and we’re going to trip if you move too quickly.”

“Then I think,” Bitty says, taking Jack’s hands in his own, “that we should move to the bed, don’t you?”

They lose a few more pieces of clothing on the way to their bedroom — Jack doesn’t think he’s getting ahead of himself to call it _theirs_ — and don’t even bother to turn on the light before they giddily collapse onto the bed. 

*

When Jack wakes up the digital clock on the nightstand reads 11:30. Bitty’s soundly sleeping beside him, wrapped up in a fuzzy blanket like a burrito. Jack listens to his quiet breathing, in and out, as he considers getting out of bed. He has to pee, and he’s kind of thirsty. But Bitty is so warm next to him, and after waiting almost twenty years for this moment he’s reluctant to let it end.

Sex with Bitty was good. Most of Jack’s first times with a new partner have been a little awkward, and there had been a little of that with Bitty as they learned each other’s bodies and what the other liked. But it had also been fun and emotional, full of laughter and even a few tears as they figured each other out together. It’s like the last piece in an almost-complete puzzle has been found after years of searching. 

“Sweetheart? You awake?” The Bitty burrito rolls over onto its side and curls into Jack.

“Mm.” Jack presses a kiss to the top of Bitty’s head. “We fell asleep.”

“You still snore,” Bitty says peevishly.

Jack shoves him. “ _That’s_ what you have to say? I just gave you the best blow job of your life — you said that, I’m not going to forget it — and all you have to comment on is my _snoring_? Anyway, I’m pretty sure you fell asleep before me.”

“I have ears, Jack. Anyway, I didn’t say I don’t like it. It’s comfortable.”

“Sure.”

“It’s proof that you’re here with me.”

Well, that gets Jack. “We can stay here. We don’t ever have to leave this bed, if you don’t want to.”

“Actually, I’m kind of hungry. You hungry?”

“I could eat,” Jack says as his stomach growls in response. 

Bitty giggles. “I guess that’s a yes. C’mon, Mister Zimmermann. Help me out here.” Jack finds the end of the blanket and tugs, sending Bitty rolling off the bed. “I can’t believe I’m gonna marry you,” Bitty whines from the floor.

“Hold that thought,” Jack says, because it’s definitely one he wants to come back to. But he still has to pee, and he should probably wash up a little.

When Jack comes out of the bathroom, Bitty’s in the kitchen, standing in front of the open fridge. The blanket is wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. “Omelets?” he asks, pulling a box of eggs and a green pepper off the shelf.

“Pie and coffee?” Jack asks hopefully, coming up behind Bitty and wrapping himself around him. There’s half an apple pie sitting on the counter.

“If we have coffee now we’ll be up all night,” Bitty says pragmatically.

“That’s the plan.”

“Oh, you!” Bitty relaxes into Jack’s embrace as Jack bites at the junction between his neck and shoulder. “All right, you’ve won me over.”

“That was pretty easy,” Jack observes. 

“Honey, you won me over twenty years ago in that old Haus kitchen.” Bitty shivers and Jack reaches around him to nudge the refrigerator door shut. “Right, pie,” Bitty says as they shuffle over to the counter as a unit. “Do you mind that it’s been sitting out for two days?”

“Bits, your two-day-old pie is still better than anything I could get in the grocery store.” Jack grabs the tin and two forks from the drawer. “Want me to start the coffee?”

“Decaf, please.”

Jack nods and pulls the little-used decaf bag from the pantry and measures it into the French press. Bitty still takes his coffee with milk and sugar — “I’m back on the real stuff,” he assured Jack when he moved in — and Jack gets those ready, along with two mugs.

They eat straight out of the pie tin, laughing as they go after the same piece of sugar-crusted top crust.

“So,” Jack says, circling back to the thing he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about since Bitty uttered the words. “You’re gonna marry me, eh?”

“It’s not too soon, is it? I mean, obviously we can have a long engagement, take some time to get used to —“ Bitty waves his fork between them “— this. But that’s what this is, right? You want to get married?”

“Bits, if I could marry you yesterday I would.”

“Then it’s settled. We’ll call Shitty tomorrow, ask him to officiate. He can do that, right?”

Jack nods. Shitty won’t just marry them as soon as they ask, his entire family will be relentless with their “I told you so’s.” It might be worth keeping this a secret a little longer just to spare themselves their smug reactions. “Since we’re talking marriage, you might want to — Well, come on.” He stands and extends a hand to Bitty, who winces as he gets to his feet. “You okay, bud?”

Bitty makes a face and rolls his shoulders. “Neck and shoulders are just a little tight. They get like this sometimes. Too many years spent hunched over a computer.”

“You should stretch more. Or massage. You aren’t 21 anymore.”

“Neither are you, Mister Two Knee Surgeries.”

“I learned the hard way. Come on, you have to open your present.”

“I think I already got my present,” Bitty says with a smirk.

“Trust me, you’ll like this.”

Jack has a Christmas tree this year, a real one he and Bitty picked up at Lowe’s and decorated with the twins. All of Bitty’s childhood ornaments are on the tree, as well as a few Jack has collected over the years. Jack’s parents prefer a color-coordinated tree, and Jack has a feeling Bitty does too, but it makes him happy to see their mismatched ornaments hanging together. Jack even allowed Shitty to put up a little action figure ornament of himself in his old Falcs uniform, a promo that was part of a home game giveaway early in his career. 

Under the tree, in a slim box with a simple gold ribbon tied around it, are the plane tickets Jack booked months ago. What he originally intended to be a romantic getaway may just be a honeymoon. Bitty carefully undoes the ribbon and lifts the lid.

“Honey?” Bitty asks a little uncertainly, blinking at the paper in front of him.

“When’s the last time you took a vacation? A real vacation?”

“Lord, it’s been too long,” Bitty breathes. “You planned this before everything happened?”

“You know we’ve spent the last three years trying to work out a way to be together,” Jack says, suddenly finding the whole thing absurd. For all the twists and unexpected detours along the way, all the disappointments and missed opportunities, this is their story and this moment is playing out exactly the way it should. “I thought if we finally had some time away together, away from jobs and parents and our friends, we could finally work it out. Then you got laid off and I thought it would be a nice way to get your mind off things. But now I’m thinking —”

“Honeymoon?” Bitty asks, relaxing against Jack.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

And that’s that. It’s not the way Jack thought he would propose, but Jack’s never taken the straightforward route to anything. Why should asking Bitty to marry him be different? Actually, now that he’s thinking about it, Bitty was technically the one to propose. From the bedroom floor, no less. And now that’s part of their ridiculous, improbable, romantic story too.

“Merry Christmas, Bits.” Jack tightens his arms around Bitty and exhales, feels the heaviness of months and years of pining and regret fall away as they breathe together.

“Merry Christmas, Sweetpea. I’m yours.” 


	6. Epilogue - 2034

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic pretty much wrapped up in the last chapter, but I couldn't resist this tiny little coda, parts of which were originally Chapter 5. This is pure domestic fluff, nothing more. Just a little happily ever after for these two dorks who finally got their act together.

“All right, Bits. This one is for you.”

Jack, Bitty, Shitty, and Lardo sit on the floor among discarded wrapping paper and bows, the aftermath of the twins’ Christmas present extravaganza. Now that they’re contentedly playing in the corner with their new Ruth Bader Ginsberg and Rosa Parks action figures, the adults are able to have their own more civilized gift exchange.

“Oh, I don’t want to go first,” Bitty insists. “You open yours.”

“Come on, Bits.” Lardo waves the flat package in front of his face until he finally give in and snatches it away. “Fine. But one of you is going next. And we need to hurry this along, I’ve gotta take my cinnamon rolls out of the oven.”

“Just open it,” Shitty implores.

“Why are y’all staring at me?” Bitty asks. He narrows his eyes. “Do _you_ know what it is?” he asks, poking Jack in the chest.

“My lips are sealed.”

“And here I thought you were on my team,” Bitty grumbles. He tears into the package and extracts a framed woodcut print of a rabbit leaping over a pie. Above it are the words “Brown Hare Bakery.” Below, “Est. 2034.”

“It’s your new logo,” Lardo explains. “So you can look all professional and stuff.”

“ _Oh_.” Bitty traces a finger over the image as he gazes at it. “It’s perfect.”

Jack agrees. The gift hadn’t been his idea, but he’d been on board from the moment Lardo suggested it.

It’s been just over a year since Bitty lost his job, a year that hasn’t always been easy despite the many good things Jack and Bitty have enjoyed together … like marriage. A year ago, Jack thought doing this with Bitty would be easy. And most of it has been. But sharing a life and home with another person requires a lot of compromise, no matter how in love you are, and they’re still getting used to this new aspect of their dynamic.

Bitty spent the first quarter of the year floundering, worried he would be unemployed forever, and Jack didn’t always know how to support him. They argued about it; to this day it’s the biggest fight they’ve ever had: Jack had seen how much Bitty’s old job had taken out of him, and reassured him he could take it easy. “I’ll support you,” he said. “I have money. Neither of us has to work another day in our lives, if we don’t want to.”

Bitty, equally determined to pay his own way and maintain his identity, stubbornly refused to let Jack bear all of their financial responsibilities. “I like that you want to take care of me,” he reassured Jack. “I _love_ the way you take care of me. You sure know how to make me feel loved. But I can’t just sit back and make you take care of everything. I don’t want to be a kept man, Jack.”

Jack understood. After all, even he had a few thriving side gigs going. If Bitty wanted to go back to advertising, Jack wouldn’t stop him,

But after a half dozen interviews and a couple of offers he turned down, Bitty confessed to Jack that what he really wanted to do was bake. “If it doesn’t take off in a year,” he said, “I’ll look for something else.”

“Do it,” Jack encouraged. He’d never understood why Bitty hadn’t done anything more with his baking in the first place. "And don't feel like you have to stick to a timeline. However long it takes, I've got your back."

Brown Hare Bakery has gained a loyal following, largely through word of mouth. Bitty’s used his years of marketing expertise to his advantage, partnering with local businesses to bring his pop-up bakery to store openings, charity galas, and community events. He’s floated the idea of opening a brick and mortar shop, but isn’t sure about making the leap back into long workdays with little time off.

“I feel like I’m finally myself again,” he admitted to Jack after his first big catering job. “Losing my job sucked, but I’ve been given this chance to start over and I want to do it right. I’m done with 80-hour weeks and never taking a vacation.”

The new lifestyle agrees with Bitty. He looks healthier than Jack’s seen him in years; the color has returned to his cheeks and the sparkle is back in his eyes. He smiles more, and sings and dances in the kitchen like he used to. Jack helps out, when he can. Bitty has a strict “no hands on my baked goods” policy, but he willingly taste tests the new recipes and assists with deliveries and event set-up. 

They started looking at houses a few months ago. Jack’s high rise condo in the city was fine for a 25-year-old bachelor, but it’s not ideal for a middle-aged married couple, a fact Jack is reminded of every time Bitty goes into the laundry room and swears he can smell “the ghosts of sweaty hockey gear past.” (He’s not wrong.)

Jack’s looking forward to weekends full of home improvement projects and a backyard garden. Bitty’s looking forward to a bigger kitchen because it takes so long for him to fulfill big orders using their standard oven, but Jack has something else up his sleeve.

“That’s the original,” Lardo says of the framed picture Bitty now holds. “But I saved different versions of the image to a flash drive so you can use them in your marketing.”

“Your husband thinks we should all have shirts,” Shitty adds.

“That’s a good idea, Sweetpea.” Bitty leans up to steal a quick kiss from Jack. “We’ll make you my walking billboard, really put you to work.”

“There’s a gift from me, too.” Jack pulls another package toward them and deposits it in Bitty’s lap, despite Bitty’s pleas that somebody else open a present. “If you insist,” Jack says, reaching over and peeling off a thin strip of paper to get him started.

When he’s finished unwrapping it Bitty stares, slack-jawed, at its contents. “… Is this?” He gestures wordlessly at the papers in his lap, plans for the commercial kitchen Jack wants to build on the site of their (eventual) new home.

Jack nods. “Those meetings I’ve been going to these past few weeks haven’t been with the ownership group. I’ve been talking to an architect. These are just preliminary plans, obviously. We want to make sure it works for you. But the footprint should work on any of the properties we’ve been looking at.

Overcome with emotion, Bitty simply flings himself into Jack’s embrace and buries his face in his chest.

“Ladies and gentleman, I think he’s speechless,” Shitty observes.

“For once,” Lardo chirps.

“You’re okay with it, right?” Jack asks. “It’s not too much?” They’d talked about Bitty renting space in a commercial kitchen co-op, or getting a place with a guest house so Bitty can have a work space of his own. This is more than they’ve ever discussed, and Jack has spent weeks worrying he might be overstepping a boundary Bitty’s comfortable with.

Bitty’s reply is a muffled but enthusiastic “yes.”

“I guess this means we have to choose a house, eh?”

Bitty abruptly pulls away. “Jack Laurent Bittle-Zimmermann, if buying me a kitchen was just a ploy to get me to stop procrastinating and make up my mind—”

“Oooh, someone’s in trouble now,” Shitty cackles. “He used your full name.”

“Never,” Jack says, the picture of innocence. “I told you, we can take as much time as you want.”

“Maybe we can ask the realtor to take us back to the three we like this weekend,” Bitty concedes. “I want to see for myself how this would work on all of ‘em.”

“Maybe you can actually narrow it down to two,” Lardo says with a smirk.

“Baby steps,” Bitty says. “You can’t just rush into big decisions like this. Right, Sweetpea?”

Jack playfully shoves his husband, knocking him just off balance enough so he can easily wrestle him to the ground. “Absolutely not. Couldn’t possibly make a life changing, spur of the moment decision we might regret. Look what happened last time we did that,” Jack murmurs, bringing Bitty’s hand to his lips and gently kissing his wedding ring.

“Rude. I don’t know if I should kiss you or take you down right now.”

“How about both?” Jack offers.

“Gross,” Lardo whines as Bitty pulls Jack down for a chaste kiss. “We live here.”

“Fine!” the twins cheer from the other side of the room, where Ruth Bader Ginsberg and Rosa Parks appear to be getting married in a ceremony officiated by Batman. Jack mentally curses Ransom and Holster for teaching them about fines. At this rate, their college will be paid for by the time they’re seven.

“You wanted this to happen!” Bitty reminds them. “You all wanted this to happen!”

*

It’s just after five when they get home, but holidays with the Knight-Duans are so exhausting it might as well be midnight. “Gonna change into some comfy clothes,” Bitty says, retreating to their bedroom to do god knows what while Jack unpacks the bags of leftovers they brought home and puts everything away. Bitty’s still in the bedroom, so he pours two glasses of wine and takes them into the living room.

When Bitty joins him he does indeed look comfy in Jack’s old Falcs hoodie, the expensive sweat pants Jack’s parents gave him for Christmas, and fuzzy socks with bunny faces on the toes. “Always wondered if these were worth the hype,” Bitty says, running a hand over the soft fabric of his pants.

“Yeah? What’s the verdict?” They sent Jack a matching pair.

“Well, they fit better than those old joggers I’ve been hanging onto since college, that’s for sure.”

Jack laughs. He clings to his favorite clothes well past their use-by date for security reasons, while Bitty’s reasons are decidedly more vain, but when they consolidated their things they agreed to throw away anything worn out, ill-fitting, or "just plain atrocious” (Bitty’s words). It meant Jack had had to part with an entire drawer’s worth of free, rarely-worn athletic apparel branded with various sponsors’ logos, but freeing up the space for Bitty’s things had been worth it.

“Come here,” Jack says, pulling Bitty into his lap. “Oh, those _are_ soft.”

“Right? You should go change.”

“So you can just get me out of them?”

“Somebody sure is confident about his chances of getting laid tonight,” Bitty chirps. “What if I just want to drink wine and watch _Miracle on 34_ _th_ _Street_?”

“Original or remake?”

“Original, of course.”

“Okay,” Jack agrees, “but afterward we go to bed. It’s our anniversary. Or, our dating anniversary, I guess,” he amends, because their wedding anniversary is actually a week from now. A New Year’s Eve wedding anniversary seems like a cliché, but though they talked about getting married immediately, their (surprised but supportive) parents had insisted they wait until they could all get into town.

“I can work with that,” Bitty says, snuggling up to Jack as the opening credits roll. The weight of him is comforting and grounding, as it always has been, and — not for the first time in the past year — Jack is overcome with emotion when he thinks about how lucky he is to be married to his best friend.

“Oh, I love this part,” Bitty whispers.

“Shh.”

After more than two decades, Jack knows all of his husband’s quirks. For instance, no matter how much Bitty “loves” a movie, if he’s been drinking wine he’s all but guaranteed to fall asleep. Jack plays with Bitty’s hair while he dozes through the second half, waking him with a kiss when it’s over.

“Ugh, did I fall asleep?” Bitty frowns. “Want dinner?”

Jack shakes his head. “Want you. In our bed. Because a year ago you proposed to me there and I said yes.”

“Point of fact, you _kicked_ me out of our bed and I said I couldn’t believe I was gonna marry you,” Bitty grouses, rubbing at his eyes. “You’re the romantic fool who interpreted it as a proposal.”

“Still one of the best moments of my life. Can you blame me for wanting to recreate it?”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t have a bruise on your ass for a week,” Bitty laughs.

“Funny, I don’t remember you complaining about that bruise when I —”

Bitty makes an excited little noise from somewhere in the back of his throat. “Ooh, that’s right, let’s do that again.” He moves into Jack’s lap, wraps his arms around Jack’s neck and legs around his waist. “Take me to bed, Mr. Bittle-Zimmermann,” he commands.

Shitty may have chirped him about it earlier, but for as long as he lives, Jack will never tire of hearing their names joined together into something new and permanent. Keeping one arm wrapped securely around Bitty’s bottom and bracing himself against the couch with the other, Jack gets to his feet. Christmas isn't over yet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what started as a cute, lighthearted fic a sharp turn into Angst Town, and I appreciate everyone for sticking with it. As always, your comments made my day, and it was so hard to not directly respond to some with spoilers. For those who may be interested, I did make a ["behind the scenes" Tumblr post](https://doggernaut.tumblr.com/post/190505243101/fic-behind-the-scenes-merry-christmas-im-yours) about my writing process as this fic came together. 
> 
> I forgot to mention it in the notes at the beginning of this fic, but its title comes from the song ["Merry Christmas, I'm Yours"](https://genius.com/Brittain-ashford-merry-christmas-im-yours-lyrics) by Brittain Ashford.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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